


Return of a Doctor

by RosiePaw



Series: The Weight of a Stone of Years [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate History, Arranged Marriage, M/M, No Underage Sex, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-08
Updated: 2017-09-14
Packaged: 2018-12-25 09:07:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 27,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12032703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RosiePaw/pseuds/RosiePaw
Summary: John Watson returns to Britain after 14 years.  It's no longer the country he left.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is complete. Chapters will be posted over the next few days as they go through their final proofread. The fic is intended as the first of a series - we'll see how that works out. It's heavily influenced by the 1999 film [_Est-Ouest (East/West)_](http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0181530/), which I recommend. Thanks and praise to the Queen of Transcription, [Ariane deVere](https://arianedevere.dreamwidth.org/24894.html)!

Four beers into the evening, Bill Murray peered at John across their glasses of Molson’s and asked, “Are you sure about this?”

John shrugged.  “As sure as I can be.”

“A year ago you wouldn’t have gone.”

“Four years ago I would have.”

Bill looked mournful.  “Heard the arsehole got charged with DUI _again_ , got his license suspended _again_.  Bloody drunk drivers!  Why don’t the courts take their licenses away _permanently_?”

John shrugged again.  “Won’t give me my surgical career back.”

“Well, you’re a bloody fine GP,” Bill asserted.  “Your patients like you, and so do the nurses.”

“I’ve had enough of nurses, thanks.”  John kept his tone dry and couldn’t help feeling meanly pleased when the realization of what Bill had said played out across Bill’s face.  But then he felt ashamed.  Bill was a good guy.  He’d been with John from the very start of this.

He’d saved John’s life, once upon a time.

Bill took a large swallow of beer and grimaced.  “Canadian beer’s never going to be as good as British beer.”

John sipped.  He’d been sipping all evening.  “You mean British beer as you remember it.  Who the hell knows what British beer is like these days.”

“You let me know when you find out, Johnnie!”  Bill’s brief attempt at jocularity died swiftly.  They sat drinking in silence for a few moments.

Then Bill burst out, “I don’t see how you can do it.  We, we gave up our lives to fight for King and Country, and they _abandoned_ us!  No orders, no supplies, no new troops, not even a bloody memo to tell us what was happening!”

“That was eleven years ago, Bill.  James VII is dead, along with Queen Alexandra, their daughters and the United Kingdom itself.  If we were abandoned...”

“We _were_...” Bill muttered.

“It wasn’t the Union of British Republics that abandoned us.  It _is_ the UBR that’s invited us back.”         

“So you’re going.”

“I am.”  John didn’t add, there’s nothing left for me here anymore.  Too maudlin, especially given that he didn’t have the excuse of being drunk.  He finished off his glass, stood, threw some money on the table and collected his cane.

Bill also stood, less steadily.  “Good luck, John.  You’re a good man.”

“You too, Bill.  Give my best to Marie-Josée and the kids, eh?”

If John’s voice held just the slightest trace of bitterness at the mention of Bill’s wife and children, neither man commented on it.

***

The passengers on this particular trans-Atlantic flight were, in general, a cheerful bunch.  John couldn’t help picking up snatches of conversation.

“...going home again...”

“...all these years...”

“...wonder if he’s still alive...”

“...no news...”

“...see your granny and aunts and uncles!”

His uncle.  With any luck, his uncle was dead.  If John met the man, he didn’t think he could be responsible for his actions.  Harry, though, he wanted to try and look up Harry.  He’d last seen her being carted off to marry the said uncle’s business partner, an older man who’d already outlived two wives and had a daughter Harry’s age.

If only.  If only their father had hung on just seven months longer.  If only John had been 21, not 20 years and five months old.  Sure, he would still have had a couple of years of medical school ahead before his graduation.  But he could have negotiated with his father’s creditors, using the promise of his future salary as a doctor to leverage loan extensions.

John had pleaded with his uncle to do the same, but Andrew Watson had a hard head, little patience and no respect for his late brother’s wishes.  He’d paid off the creditors out of his own funds, but his price for doing so was to yank John out of medical school (“waste of money!”) and assign him to a clerk’s desk in one of the company warehouses.

Andrew had married off Harry first.  Then he’d arranged a marriage for John.

“No money.  I expect they think I might lend them some once we’re kin.  Ha!  Well, I might.  They’ve got connections, all these old noble families do.  If their connections pay off for me, I might be willing to lend them a bit.  With interest, of course!  Too bad they didn’t have a daughter available, but I got you on as first spouse.  Their boy’s second – your blushing bride.  Ha!  Don’t you glare at me like that, boy.  It’s a good marriage I’ve made for you.”

A good marriage.  Right.  Such a good marriage that Andrew’d made it for John instead of one of his own sons.  Such a good marriage – but Andrew would make marriages for his own sons that assured him of grandchildren.  If John’s marriage was barren, what of that to Andrew?  Less competition.

There was, however, a means of escape from his uncle’s wishes, a means of escape that was available to any physically fit, mentally sound lad who had at least 18 years.

“Something to drink, sir?”  The air steward’s voice interrupted John’s memories.

“Tomato with Worcestershire, please.”

The air steward busied himself with cups, cans, bottles.  Laughter rang out from one of the seats ahead of John.  He and the steward both glanced towards it.

“Nice to be going home, isn’t it?  Your drink, sir.”

“Ta.”

The steward continued down the aisle, leaving John to his thoughts.

Nice to be going home, indeed.

***

Their plane landed in the midst of a grey drizzle.  Welcome home to Britain.

There was no tube connecting the plane to the terminal, as John had grown accustomed to in Canada.  In fact, there was no terminal.  The passengers descended a set of portable stairs directly to the tarmac.  There were no other planes, only a rather shabby looking air tower and a clutch of what appeared to be storage buildings.

The passengers were met by a fleet of buses with signs for various destinations, a portly middle-aged man with a clipboard, several smiling young assistants, a baggage crew and, off to one side, six armed... security guards?  Except that they looked more to John’s eye like soldiers.

The baggage crew got busy unloading the plane, strewing the passengers’ bags and cases across the tarmac.  After a moment, people started searching about for their belongings.  The assistants came forward and helped, calling out names from luggage tags.  John was quickly able to locate his suitcase and duffel bag, although juggling them with the cane was tricky.

But when some of passengers, luggage in hand, began to approach the buses, the man with the clipboard frowned.  Still smiling, the assistants herded the baffled but cooperative passengers into a group.  There they waited until the last bag had been claimed, some of the younger children beginning to fuss in the drizzle.

Then the portly man began to read from his clipboard.  “Newcastle.  Abrams, Atkinson, Barton, Brennan, Catherwood, Charles, Cole.  Please board the Newcastle bus.”

Murmurs.  One of the young fathers in the group spoke up, his tenor voice calm and pleasant.  “I’m sorry, there’s been some confusion.  We’re going to London.”

Clipboard Man replied stolidly, “You’re assigned to Newcastle.  Please board your bus.”

The assistants were trying to urge the designated passengers towards the bus.

“Please,” said the father, stepping forward.  “There’s been a mistake.  We have family waiting for us in...”

Finding himself suddenly looking down the barrel of a gun, he stopped both moving and speaking.  The rest of the passengers froze as well.  The soldier holding the gun continued to stare at his target, while the rest of the soldiers spread out in a line facing the passengers.  A child started to squall and was hastily shushed.

After a moment of silence, Clipboard Man repeated, “Abrams, Atkinson, Barton, Brennan, Catherwood, Charles, Cole.  Please board the Newcastle bus.”

“George,” a woman hissed as she held her children close.  “George, come on.  Let’s get on the bus.  We’ll sort it out later.”

Slowly, people began to move towards the Newcastle bus.

“Preston.  Decourcey, Downs, Eldridge...”

And so it went.  Alphabetical group by alphabetical group, passengers were assigned to buses.  The only break in the pattern came when, at irregular intervals, one particular individual, couple or family was told to board the London bus.

“Watson.  Please board the London bus.”

John let out a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding, slung his duffle over his good shoulder and took hold of his cane with that hand, using the other hand to manage his suitcase.  As he started forward another man, already heading for the Inverness bus, turned to argue.  “How come he gets to go to London and we’re being shipped up to bloody Scotland?”

Clipboard Man never blinked.  “He’s a doctor.”

“Well, I’m an accountant!”

“We don’t need more accountants in London.”  And Clipboard Man walked away, leaving the assistants to persuade and the soldiers to compel.

The London bus was still two-thirds empty when the driver closed the doors, started the engine and pulled onto the roadway.

The passengers were notably quiet.

The ride took more than three hours, with the bus bumping along badly maintained roads and meandering through incomprehensible detours.  The driver refused to allow any breaks.  The windows of the bus would not open.  From the smell, it was apparent that at least one of the children had wet themselves.

They finally entered a neighbourhood of blocky high-rise buildings which the driver claimed represented the outskirts of London.  “New buildings,” he explained.  “They built new buildings just for you.”

When the bus came to a stop in front of the high-rises and the driver announced, “Everyone out!” the passengers stared.  This was not the London they remembered.

“ _Everyone_ out,” repeated the driver.

Reluctantly, people began to move.

A middle-aged woman in a cheap housedress and cardigan waited for them with another clipboard.  When she was done calling off names, however, John was still left standing by the bus.

“Here, what about him?” demanded the driver.  His tone was none too friendly.

“What about him?” the woman retorted.  “He’s not on my list, so he doesn’t stay here.”

“Well, he’s got to go somewhere.  He’s not staying with me, I’m due to go off-shift!”

“Like that’s any of my concern?”

“Look, you old cow...”

“ _You_ watch your mouth!  I heard Nelly Markham the next block over already put a complaint about you into the Committee not even a month ago.  You want another complaint filed, you just keep talking.”

The driver took a deep breath.  “Right, then, I apologize.  But look, he’s on _my_ list” – here the man produced a crumpled piece of paper from one pocket – “so if he’s not on _yours_ doesn’t it seem likely there was some sort of mistake?”

_He_ is standing right here, thought John.

With a sigh, the... concierge?  The concierge pulled a device out of her pocket.  It looked like a blockier, clumsier version of the “cellular” phones that had been everywhere in Canada.  Fourteen years ago, they’d been unknown in Britain.  Only those who could afford it had even had landlines.

John had left his own cell phone behind in Canada with Bill because he’d been told it wouldn’t work in the UBR – something about different signal encoding.   Now he wondered if that had been a mistake.

The concierge dialled a number and asked the driver, “What’s his name?”

John straightened and stepped forward.  “Dr John Watson,” he said, emphasizing his title slightly.

The concierge stared at him as if the bus itself had spoken, but she gave his name to the person who answered the phone.  “No, I won’t be put on hold.  Yes, I know I have to wait, but every time you people put me on hold, the call gets terminated.  Yes, fine, I’ll wait.”

They waited.

Then:  “Yes, I’m still here, where else would I be?  Yes.  Oh?  Oh!  Well, that certainly explains it.  What’s the address?  Ta.”

She slipped the phone back into her pocket, pulled out a scrap of paper and a stub of pencil and scribbled briefly.  Then she glared at John, but spoke to the driver.

“He’s married.  He’s got to go stay with his spouse.”

Oh, hell, thought John.  He hadn’t looked to confront this particular issue so soon after his arrival.  “Wait, I can explain that, it’s just...”

The concierge ignored him.  “No call for him to be taking up space here when there’s others who need it more.  Here.”

She thrust the scrap of paper at the driver, who scowled as he took it.  “Baker Street?  That’s right the centre of the city!  It’s at least another hour, with the traffic and all.  I’m not taking him, I’m due to go off-shift.”

John tried again.  “If you’d just listen a moment...”

“You’re not leaving him here, either, not if you don’t want the Committee hearing about it.”

The driver and the concierge glared at each other.  Finally the driver barked at John, “Get back on the bus!”

Fine, thought John.  I didn’t want to stay in this ugly building anyway.  I’ll find a hotel in the city.

He boarded the bus.  The driver followed him and slammed the bus door shut.  As the engine started up again, John could hear the driver mutter, “Bloody cow.”

The traffic the driver had mentioned made itself evident soon enough.  Something John had noticed during the trip from the airfield became more apparent.  Although there were lots of cars, they were small and cheap-looking, nothing like the grand old automobiles that John remembered being owned by anyone who could afford a car in the first place.  Which, to be sure, did not include many people.  John’s uncle had hired a car for the trip to John’s wedding.

“Thought you’d get out of it by enlisting, did you?  Think again, boy.  You may be the Army’s tomorrow, but for today you’re still my ward.  Lord Holmes was glad enough to have a reason for a small, fast wedding.  Probably all he could afford, anyway.  Ha!”

Staring out the window as the hired driver took steered the stately vehicle along the lane to the main house, John could see his uncle’s point.  This had once been a grand estate, but overgrown shrubbery and crumbling stonework betrayed the recent lack of maintenance.  When the main house came in sight, John was startled to see that one wing was in ruins – due to fire, judging by the scorch marks on the stone.

A small party waited for them outside....

A sharp knock at the bus’ door brought John back from his reverie.  They were locked in a line of traffic, none of the vehicles able to move even a few inches.  Still, John was surprised when the bus driver got out of his seat and opened the door.  John smelled... sausage?  His mouth watered.

“Have you got any dollars?” demanded the bus driver.  “Canadian or American, either one.”

John hesitated, but he was curious.  He handed over a blue five-dollar bill.  The bus driver passed it on to a man with a pushcart standing just outside the door, who took it with a grin and passed back a brown paper package.  Then he pushed his cart along past the bus, moving down the road to the next stalled vehicle and the next set of captive customers.

The driver unwrapped the package and removed two fat sausage rolls, then passed the package to John, who found it contained two more.  They were hot and greasy and amazingly good.  And cheap, too.  Only five dollars for...  It was only then that John realized his five-dollar bill had paid for the driver’s sausages as well as his own.

He’d gone to his bank before leaving Canada, asking if he could buy some UBR pounds there.  The teller had replied knowingly, “You _could_ , but I’d advise against it.  I hear a bit of hard currency goes a long way in Britain these days.”

John hadn’t quite understood at the time.  He did now.  Four sausage rolls for five dollars and a pushcart vendor who was all too happy to get dollars instead of pounds.

The traffic eventually began to move again, slowly.  As they crept further into the city, John began to see older buildings interspersed among the ugly new ones.  Then it became more like ugly new buildings interspersed among the older ones.

There were more people about as well.  Their clothes looked as cheap as the cars.  No one seemed to be wearing the drab, ragged clothing that John associated with poverty, but neither was anyone wearing clothing that looked particularly well-cut or well-made.

Dusk was beginning to fall, making it harder to see anything outside.  John’s thoughts drifted back to their earlier train.  His uncle had bought him a suit for his wedding and a decently made one at that, to put up a good show for Lord Holmes.  Still, John had felt awkward in it and all the more so as he was introduced to the lord and his lady.  Lord Holmes shook John’s hand genially.  Lady Holmes... glared, as if John had already managed to offend her.

John’s betrothed was nowhere in sight.  A line of servants hovered behind the lord and lady, and off to one side there stood – or rather, sulked – a boy.  He couldn’t have been more than thirteen, although he wore the suit of an adult man, slightly too large for his skinny frame.  He barely reached John’s chin.  His mop of curls almost hid his eyes but failed to entirely hide the acne on his forehead.  John would have bet a quid that under the legs of his long pants, the boy’s knees were scabby.

“Well, now,” boomed Lord Holmes, “I don’t expect that you want to stand here talking with us old folks, John.  Sherlock!”

John, looking expectantly towards the door of the house, didn’t immediately notice as the sulky and reluctant boy approached.

Lord Holmes beamed.  “Sherlock, this is John Watson.  John, my son, soon to be your husband: Sherlock Holmes.”

Shocked, John stammered, “How... how old is he?”

The boy’s chin went up.  “I’m fourteen, and you’re an idiot.  You managed to step in a mud puddle just getting from your lodgings to your uncle’s _hired_ car.  You’ve got splash marks up the back of the left leg of that suit that doesn’t really fit you.  If the puddle had been on this estate, I could tell exactly where it was by the type of mud.  But I haven’t been _allowed_ to see much of London.”  The brat glared at his father. 

Christ, his voice hadn’t even broken yet.

John lurched awake as the driver hit the bus’ brakes and horn hard, cursing all the while.  It was dark outside now, but they seemed to be near the centre of the city.

“Look, you don’t have to take me to, ah, Baker Street, was it?  Just drop me near a decent hotel.”

The driver laughed.  “Do you have reservations?  No?  Then you won’t be getting a room at any hotel, not without Committee connections, which I know you don’t have since you’ve just got here.  We’re almost to Baker Street anyhow, I might as well take you the whole way.”

Baker Street proved to be a street of nice-looking older residential buildings, almost all of which had more recently sprouted shops on the ground floor.  The driver manoeuvred the bus up to the kerb and opened the door.  “Here we are, 221B.”  He hopped out, John following more slowly.

A few moments later, John stood next to his suitcase and duffel, studying the house as the bus pulled away.  Right, then.  Forward march, soldier.  If he could stay here the night, he could get this mess straightened out tomorrow.

Juggling his luggage and his cane, he approached the door, setting his suitcase down to knock.  A moment later, the door swung open and a young girl stared at him.

“Ah, hello.  I’m looking for Sherlock Holmes?”

“Aunt Martha!  Client!” the girl shrieked.  Then she slammed the door in his face.

John hardly had time to blink before it was opened again, this time by an older woman in a purple housedress.  “I apologize for Toby’s manners, dear.  Are you here to see Sherlock?”

“Yes, but I’m not...”

The woman talked right over him.  “Come inside, then, and go right up the stairs.  I’m fairly sure he’s in.  Oh, you’ve got a cane!  I know what that’s like, I’ve got a hip, myself.  Just leave your bags inside there, then, they’ll be perfectly safe.  Go on, up with you!”

John limped up the stairs, wondering exactly what kind of work Sherlock had taken up that involved “clients.”

The door at the top of the stairs opened before he could knock.  John looked up – and up again.  God, the man was tall.  And exotically gorgeous, with his almond-shaped eyes, high cheekbones and full lips.

Oh, hell.  If Sherlock had managed to land a boyfriend, this situation was about to get all the more awkward.

“Sorry to bother you,” John offered.  “I was told that Sherlock Holmes lives here?”

“Canada or the United States?”

John blinked, doubly surprised by the question and the luscious baritone voice.

“You were raised in England, most likely Hampshire, but you’ve spent the last several years in North America.  Not surprising.  Almost all the British soldiers abandoned in Afghanistan during the Revolution were adopted by Canadian or American units and returned to those countries after the war in Afghanistan was deemed over.”

All this without a breath taken, while John continued to stand in the doorway.  “Er, may I come in?”

The beautiful stranger stepped aside and gestured more or less in the direction of the sofa.  The room was a bit of a tip, with piles of paper strewn everywhere.  There was a bison skull wearing headphones hanging from one wall and another skull, human, on the mantelpiece.

“Have a seat if you wish, but you don’t really need that cane.  The pain in your leg is psychosomatic.”

Already beginning to sit down, John rose back up to his feet.  “Speaking both from experience and as a doctor, I can assure you that psychosomatic pain is still genuinely _pain_ ful.  When my leg pain recurs during periods of stress, I ‘really’ do need this cane.”

“It’s recurring, not permanent!  Of course.  That explains why it appears to be more recent in origin than your shoulder injury, although neither is old enough to have been received in Afghanistan.  I’d say three... no, four years ago?”

“Drunk driver,” John gritted.  “In Canada.”  Not that it was any of this gorgeous, beautiful, _complete dickhead’s_ business.

“But that’s too long ago to be the reason you’ve accepted the government’s invitation to return to the UBR.  No, you’ve experienced a more recent... loss.  Personal loss.  Not a spouse though.”

John’s simmering temper was getting near the boiling point.  “Look here...”

“For one thing, that would technically have been bigamy.  Easy enough to get away with given the tenuous diplomatic relations between Canada and the UBR but not an option for you, you had _moral_ qualms...”

“That’s enough!” John bellowed.  “I’ve had a long and tiring trip, I’ve been carted around like a piece of baggage and for reasons I don’t understand, people keep telling me that there’s no room for me anywhere in London except this flat.  I’ll get that straightened out tomorrow and be out of your hair.  _Tonight_ , I need a place to sleep.  This sofa will do fine.”

He sat down.

The stranger looked more interested than intimidated.  “I play the violin when I’m thinking, and I spend the night thinking more often than sleeping.  There’s a bed in the bedroom.  I suggest you use it.”

Without waiting for a reply from John, he turned towards the stairs and yelled down, “Mrs Hudson!  Have Billy and Archie bring my husband’s bags up.  And we need tea!”

John’s head was beginning to spin.  “Wait.  Husband?  _You’re_...?”

The not-so-stranger gave him a blatantly cheesy wink.  “The name is Sherlock Holmes.”    

Clomping footsteps sounded on the stairs, heralding the arrival of two boys, a teenager with John’s suitcase and a younger boy struggling with the duffel.

“Aunt Martha says to tell you that she’s not your housekeeper and the tea will be up shortly.  Put these in the bedroom?”

Sherlock nodded absently, studying John.

“Thank you,” John told the boys, since Sherlock didn’t seem about to.  They grinned and clomped on into the bedroom, deposited their burdens and then stampeded back through and out of the flat.  There was a small shriek from the stairs.

“Boys!  You almost made me drop the tea!” scolded a female voice.

The woman in purple entered with a steaming pot on a tray.  “Sherlock, you should have told me your husband was coming!  I would have baked something nice.”  And then to John, “Martha Hudson.  I’m so glad to meet you.”

“John Watson, the pleasure is mine.  Here, let me help you with that...”

“Oh, no, don’t you bother yourself.  Milk?  Sugar?  Now, Sherlock, aren’t you the lucky one.  Your husband’s a fine-looking man!  And John, you’re lucky to have Sherlock, too.  I’ll never forget how much help he was when my husband was sentenced to be executed.”

John was impressed despite himself.  “He got your husband off execution?”

“No,” said Sherlock drily, “I ensured it.”

A hubbub arose downstairs, above which a woman’s voice yelled, “Aunt Martha!”

“Oh, dear, Marie’s at odds with the appliances again.  John, the boys have the room upstairs.  Don’t hesitate to let me know if they cause you any trouble.”  

John watched her go and then turned to Sherlock.  “How’d you guess all that about me.”

“I never guess,” Sherlock replied haughtily.  “I observe.”

“Everyone observes, but...”

“Do they?  You ascended the stairs to this flat with some difficulty.  How many steps were there?”

“I was trying not to fall arse over tea kettle, not counting the bloody steps!”

“Precisely.  You failed to observe.  What _I_ observed was that your Hampshire accent is overlaid with more recent North American influence.  You have a soldier’s posture, and you’re of an age to have joined the King’s army before the Revolution.  You use your cane when you walk, but when you stand you place your weight evenly on both legs and not on the cane at all.  In fact when you lost your temper, you raised the cane off the ground as if you were about to hit me with it.  Wouldn’t be the first time that’s happened.”

“I don’t doubt it,” said John, amused despite himself.    

“You hold your left shoulder stiffly and you have a bit of a tremour in your left hand, but you correct for both of those more automatically than you do for your leg.  Also, your cane doesn’t have four years of wear on it.”

“I could have bought a new one.”

“Please.  If you were the type of man to spend money replacing a perfectly good cane, you wouldn’t be wearing those clothes.”

John was about to protest that there was nothing wrong with his clothes until he realized something.  The dark suit that Sherlock was wearing was the first finely tailored item of clothing John had seen since landing in the UBR.

If Committee connections could get a man a hotel room, could they get him a posh suit?

He put that thought aside for consideration and instead asked, “How’d you know about me losing...”

Then he had to swallow, hard, but Sherlock didn’t seem to notice.  “You spent eight years in Canada under the impression that you’d be there for the rest of your life.  You experience physical attraction to other people under the right circumstances...”

Oh, hell, Sherlock had noticed John staring when he first opened the door.  John felt his face flush.

“...and you’re not inclined to celibacy, but you returned to the UBR alone.  Balance of probability says that over the course of eight years you’ve lost at least one serious girlfriend or boyfriend, causing the ‘period of stress’ you mentioned.  But no marks on your finger from a wedding ring, not even the hint of a tan line, so, not married.”

John inhaled deeply, trying to compose himself.  “Many young Canadian couples don’t bother, not when common-law partnership works well enough for them.  But then we found out she was pregnant.  I was going to contact the UBR embassy, see if I could do something about, er, the previous marriage.”

“Our marriage.”  Sherlock’s tone was indecipherable.  “But then something happened.”

“Something,” agreed John.  He looked down and realized he was turning his now-empty tea cup back and forth in his hands.  He set it down.  “And then I told you I’d been assigned to stay here, you put that together with ‘soldier’ and knew who I was, eh?” 

Sherlock shrugged and sipped his own tea.

John bit back a yawn.  “Look, I don’t mean to be rude, but it’s been a long day.  D’you mind...”

“You already know where the bedroom is.”

“You’re sure about that?  I could take the sofa...”

“I have experiments to work on, I won’t be sleeping until later if at all.”  With that Sherlock turned away in a gesture that reminded John of his uncle dismissing a clerk.

Fine, then.  John made his way into the bedroom, frowning slightly as he discovered a good-sized bed that could easily have held two.  He’d forgotten to ask Sherlock about clean sheets, but he was too tired to care.  He brushed his teeth in the bathroom next door, then undressed and slipped between the cool, smooth sheets.  They smelled of male skin and tea and something subtle and spicy.  Expensive soap or shampoo.

Smelled rather nice, actually.

John fell asleep breathing the scent in.


	2. Chapter 2

The laboratory equipment was familiar but... mismatched.  John was fairly sure he hadn’t seen that particular model of gas chromatograph until he went back to medical school in Canada.  What was it doing here, in the lab he remembered from his university days in Britain?  He heard someone running along the corridor towards the lab and already knew the news they carried: his father was dead.

But the student who burst into the room wasn’t carrying a telegram.  “Watson!  Two blokes here to see you!”

What?  John stepped out of the lab into the corridor, but instead he found himself on the stoop of the house he’d shared with Mary.  Two men in black suits awaited him.

“Dr Watson,” said one as he pulled his suit jacket back to show his CSIS ID.  A gunshot wound blossomed on his chest.  Bullets and screams filled the air as the sun beat down on the dusty ruins where they’d been ambushed.

“Watson, get down!”  Was that Murray?  But John needed to save the man who’d been shot, except the man was Mary, except that Mary had curly, dark hair and she was so young and he needed to save him and he yelled her name, his name, a name...    

The bullets sang as they sped through the air and then another voice joined in.  John couldn’t make out the words but the tune was sweet.  Lulling.  Nice, like the scent of Sherlock’s bed.

Wait.  _Sherlock’s_ bed?

John was lying awake in Sherlock’s bed, still sweating from his nightmare.  Outside the room, someone was playing a lullaby on the violin.  Playing rather well, too, John realized.  Eventually his breathing slowed and he drifted back to sleep.

In the morning John found Sherlock, wearing either the same dark suit as the evening before or its twin, sitting at the kitchen table peering down a microscope.  Much of the kitchen appeared to have been repurposed as a laboratory.  John wondered if he’d noticed this subconsciously the previous day and it had slipped into his dream.

“Good morning.”

Sherlock ignored him.  John spotted a kettle on the stove and tried again.  “Care for some tea?”

Silence.

Shrugging, John put the kettle on and dug about in the cupboards, which turned out to contain a great deal of glassware and notably little in the way of food.  He did, however, find some bagged tea and what looked to be a clean mug.

Setting these on the counter, he opened the refrigerator to see if they had any milk.  And slammed the refrigerator shut again.

“There’s a human head in there!”

Sherlock finally deigned to look up from the microscope.  “I know.  I put it there.”  Then he went back to his slides.

John remembered the two skulls, bison and human.  Did Sherlock engage in some bizarre form of taxidermy?  As a hobby or a profession?

And more to the point, might Mrs Hudson lend him some milk for his tea?

This was how John ended up having breakfast in 221A along with Mrs Hudson, her niece, Marie Turner, and Marie’s three children: Billy, 16, Archie, 12, and Octobria-called-Toby, 10.

Billy insisted on shaking hands when introduced and making sure that John knew he was Billy _Wiggins_ , not Billy Turner.

“My first marriage,” Marie explained.  She was an attractive woman, perhaps a few years older than John and built on a more generous scale than her petite aunt.  “And you and Sherlock are... married?”

Her upward lilt at the end of the sentence made it sound as if the matter were in doubt and that she’d be neither surprised nor unhappy if the answer turned out to be “no.”

“It’s a bit complicated,” John began.

Mrs Hudson set the freshly refilled teapot down between them with a clunk.  “But the short answer is that yes, they are.  More toast, John?”

Marie pouted slightly and rolled her eyes at John once Mrs Hudson’s back was turned.  John had to wonder exactly who Mrs H was warning off whom.  He turned to the Marie’s daughter instead, smiling.   

“Octobria’s a pretty and unusual name,” he noted.

Marie looked rueful.  “Not for girls born soon after the Revolution, it’s not.  Too many parents got hold of the same clever idea at once.”

But Toby beamed proudly.  “There are four other girls in my class at school named Octobria!  And Octobria Smith’s mother calls her _Ocky_.”

At which point Toby and Archie made gagging faces and chanted, “Ock, ock, ock, ock!” in unison until thankfully interrupted by a knock at the door.

“Too early for a client,” proclaimed Billy.  And then to Archie, “Betcha five shillings it’s that copper fellow Lestrade.”

“I wouldn’t take that bet and neither should you, Archie,” Mrs Hudson said firmly as she went to answer the door.  “Not while Billy’s sitting facing the mirror that reflects everyone and everything going by on the street.”

The younger boy snatched his hand away from where he’d been about to shake his brother’s and stuck his tongue out instead.

Outside in the foyer, a man with an Estuary accent could be heard greeting Mrs Hudson and asking if “Himself” was upstairs.  He was climbing the stairs as Mrs Hudson came back into the kitchen.

“D’you think it’s a murder?” asked Billy hopefully. 

“Billy...” Marie began, but Mrs Hudson interrupted.

“I had a talk with Sherlock after what happened last time, and he won’t be dragging you along to look at dead bodies again, young man.”

“He wasn’t _dragging_ me,” Billy protested.  “He asked me if I wanted to go and I said yes!”

“Well, he won’t be asking you again.”

A door opened on the floor above them, allowing voices to be heard.

“...forensics?”

“It’s Anderson.”

“Anderson won’t work with me.”  That was definitely Sherlock’s voice, becoming a bit clearer as the two men walked down the stairs.

“Well, he won’t be your assistant.”  That was the Estuary accent, Lestrade.

“I _need_ an assistant.”

“Will you come?”

“Not in a police car.  I’ll be right behind.”

“Thank you.”  The front door opened and shut.

Then the door of 221A opened, revealing Sherlock wearing a long, dark coat, a blue scarf and leather gloves.

Billy jammed a piece of toast in his mouth and started to stand up.  Marie grabbed his arm.

“Billy,” said Sherlock, “Your enthusiasm is appreciated, but I need someone with specific skills today.”

John, approving of the tact with which Sherlock had let the boy down, was taken aback when Sherlock then added, “John, you’re a doctor.  Any particular specialty?”

“Trauma surgeon, before the accident.”

“And before you were a doctor, you were a soldier.”

“Not quite as clear cut as that.  I did a fair bit of doctoring in the army.  Sometimes I was all we had.”

“Any good?”

What was Sherlock getting at?  “ _Very_ good.” 

“Seen a lot of injuries, then; violent deaths.”

“Sherlock, there are people eating here!” scolded Mrs Hudson, although the children looked rather appreciative. 

Sherlock continued unfazed.  “Bit of trouble too, I bet.”

John thought of the past 14 years.  “Of course, yes,” he replied quietly.  “Enough for a lifetime.  Far too much.” 

“Want to see some more?”

As John hesitated, Marie placed a possessive hand on his elbow.  “John hasn’t finished his breakfast.”

John was on his feet reaching for his cane before she was done with her sentence.  “Actually, I have.  Mrs Hudson, thanks for the meal!  Sherlock, I’ll just be a minute getting my...”

Sherlock handed him his jacket.

“Right, thanks,” John finished.

But Sherlock was already striding out the front door.  John hurried to keep up.  At the kerb, Sherlock looked imperiously at the oncoming traffic and waved.  Three cars immediately began to swerve in their direction.  As the fastest driver pulled to a stop in front of them, the other two pulled back into traffic, honking and making rude gestures.

“Lauriston Gardens,” Sherlock told the driver once he and John were ensconced in the passenger seat.

Neither the driver nor the car had what one might call a professional look.  “Is this bloke a real cabbie?” John asked Sherlock.

The driver grinned at John in the rear view mirror.  “Just making a bit of extra money, mate.”

“Cars are cheap,” explained Sherlock.  “Petrol less so.  Almost anyone in London who’s invested in the first is willing to take passengers to pay for the second.  Next question?”

“Yeah, where are we going?”

“Crime scene.  _Next_ question?”

“What do you do?  For work, I mean?”

“What do you think?”

John hesitated.  “I’d say private detective...”

“But?”

“...but the police don’t go to private detectives.”

“I’m a consulting detective.  Only one in the world.  I invented the job.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means when the police are out of their depth, which is always, they consult me.”

There was a squeal as the driver slammed the brakes on to avoid a crowd of pedestrians who’d all decided to cross the road at once.  Many of them weren’t even paying attention to where they were going but were instead either talking on or staring at more of those blocky cell phones.

Watching them through the car’s window, John asked, “Why is London like this?  It’s always been a large city, but now it feels packed to the gills.  Mrs Hudson’s got five people crammed into a space that might comfortably hold two or three.”

“And she rents out 221C whenever someone comes along who’s desperate enough to live there.”

“But why?”

“The Revolution cancelled all debts.  Indentured factory workers and miners, tenant farmers carrying generations worth of debt to their landlords – suddenly they were all free to move.  They moved here.”

John whistled softly.  “The new government passed laws cancelling all debts?”

When Sherlock’s eyes slid over to the rear view mirror, John realized that their driver was watching them and listening carefully.

“That was part of it.  Driver, we’ll get out here.”

The car pulled over to the kerb.  Sherlock got out and began to stride away.  The driver looked at John meaningfully and cleared his throat.  He brightened considerably when John handed him a Canadian ten.  “Thanks, mate.”

Sherlock had in fact stopped a few metres away.  As John hobbled up to him, he continued speaking as if there’d been no break.  “The other part was that people who had less saw a chance to get more from those who had more.  You remember my parents?  My father tried to defend the family home against looters with an old shotgun he kept for hunting.  Both he and my mother died.”

“I... I’m sorry.  Were you there at the time?”

“No, I’d already left for university.  This way.”

Police cars and yellow tape half a block on marked their destination, an alley between two buildings.  To John’s shocked surprise, the pretty, dark-skinned woman who stood guard at the tape greeted Sherlock with, “Hello, Freak.”

Sherlock seemed to take the insult in stride, merely replying that he was here to see Detective Inspector Lestrade and that yes, he’d been invited.  But when the woman persisted in questioning him as to _why_ Lestrade might invite him, Sherlock resorted to sarcasm.

“I think he wants me to take a look.”

“Well,” she replied, “You know what I think, don’t you?”

Sherlock lifted the tape and ducked under it.  “Always, Sally.” He breathed in through his nose.  “I even know you didn’t make it home last night.”

Sally looked nonplussed.  “I don’t...”  Then she seemed to notice John for the first time.  “Er, who’s this?” 

“Dr Watson, my colleague and husband.”  Sherlock turned to John.  “John, Sergeant Sally Donovan.  Old friend.  Well, I say ‘friend’...”

“Your _husband_?  Since when do you have a husband?” And then to John, “Is he paying you to do this?”

“Since 14 years ago and no, he doesn’t have to,” John retorted. “If I may?”  He indicated Sherlock, who was now holding the yellow tape up so that John could enter.

Sally Donovan glared and lifted a radio to her mouth.  “Freak’s here.  Bringing him in.”

She led them down the alley, Sherlock studying the ground and the building walls as they went.  When a man dressed in a coverall appeared from a basement door, Sherlock greeted him with, “Ah, Anderson. Here we are again.”

Anderson looked at him with distaste.  “It’s a crime scene.  I don’t want it contaminated.  Are we clear on that?”

Sherlock took another deep breath in through his nose.  “Quite clear.  And is your wife away for long?”

“Oh, don’t pretend you worked that out,” retorted Anderson.  “Somebody told you that.”

“Your deodorant told me that.”

“My deodorant?”

Sherlock smirked.  “It’s for men.”

“Well, of course it’s for men!  I’m wearing it!”

“So’s Sergeant Donovan.”

As Anderson looked at Donovan in shock, Sherlock sniffed loudly.  “Ooh, and I think it just vaporised.  May I go in?”

Anderson turned on Sherlock angrily.  “Now look: whatever you’re trying to imply...”

“I’m not implying anything,” replied Sherlock as he slipped past Anderson, heading for the basement door.  “But is your tongue sore this morning?”

“My _tongue_?” Anderson sputtered.

“Sally seems to be in good spirits, at least for her.”  Sherlock turned to look at Anderson’s face and then, rather pointedly, further down.  “I can’t think of any other means by which _you_ could have produced this effect.”  He turned and vanished down into the basement.

John, following him, couldn’t resist giving Anderson’s crotch a look of his own, just to emphasize Sherlock’s point.

He found himself in a small anteroom, where Lestrade was pulling on a coverall like Anderson’s.  Sherlock pointed to a pile of similar garments.  “You need to wear one of these.”

Lestrade looked up sharply.  “Who’s this?”

“I told you I needed an assistant,” said Sherlock blandly as he traded his leather gloves for a latex pair.

“Fine, but who is he?”

“A medical doctor – and my husband.”

Lestrade’s jaw dropped.

When Sherlock handed John a pair of latex gloves, John indicated his own coverall.  “Aren’t you gonna put one on?”

Apparently not, because Sherlock scowled at him and instead of answering, asked Lestrade, “So where are we?”

“Through here,” replied Lestrade, indicating a door at one side of the anteroom.  It led to a large, bare room, unremarkable to John’s eye except for the woman lying dead in the far corner, her face frozen in an expression of horror.

Sherlock was the first one to enter, inhaling deeply as he circled the room.  He stopped at the room’s one window, set high in the wall, and gave the latch a tug.

“That looks as if it’s been painted shut,” offered Lestrade, still standing in the doorway.

“Shut the door as tightly as you can,” Sherlock ordered.

Lestrade complied, wrestling the wooden door into place against the slightly warped frame but shaking his head when John made a motion to help.

“Now open it.”

Both Lestrade and John stared at Sherlock with expressions of disbelief.  When Sherlock merely stared back, Lestrade planted his feet and, with a couple of hard yanks, got the door open again.

Not bothering with thanks, Sherlock began to circle the room again, this time paying close attention to the floor.  He stopped next to the body and got down on all fours, crouching almost with his nose against the floor.  Then he straightened up, removing a sampling bag and a small spatula from his coat pocket.  Only after taking a sample of the dirt on the floor did he turn his attention to the corpse.  First he sniffed at her clothing, hair and face.  Then he bent over, almost laying his head on her chest as he looked up her nose.

“Ewww,” exclaimed Anderson, entering the room.  “What’s the Freak doing now, checking for snot?  Hey, stop, you can’t do that!”

Sherlock had pulled another sample bag and a swab out of his coat pocket and was now swabbing one of the corpse’s nostrils.

“Lestrade, tell him he can’t do that!”

“Sherlock, you can only swab one nostril,” ordered Lestrade in a matter-of-fact tone.  “Leave the other for Anderson.”

Sherlock didn’t respond, but he did comply.  Then he looked at John.  “John, you’re a medical man.  What do you make of the body?”

John approached and lowered himself carefully to the floor, envying Sherlock’s ability to crouch easily.  The woman appeared to be in her early 30s.  She was dressed in neat, quiet clothing – blouse, skirt, low shoes.  No make-up and no jewelry except for a thin gold chain that ran around her neck and underneath her blouse.

After examining the corpse for a moment, John shook his head.  “No obvious signs of foul play.  If it were medically possible to die of fright, I would say that this woman has done so.”

Sherlock frowned at him, then shrugged and moved around to study the corpse’s shoes.

“Hallucinations,” Anderson stated confidently.  “She’s another one of these druggies frightened to death by their own hallucinations.”   

John sniffed the corpse’s mouth.  There was something there – something acrid? – but it was faint and gone almost as soon as he noticed it.  “No scent of alcohol.  Drugs are a possibility.”

“It’ll be one these new drugs that we don’t have tests for yet.  Ever since the Committee cracked down on the opium trade, we’ve been seeing more and more synthetics.  It’s like every petty crime boss in the country’s found himself someone with a half-arsed knowledge of chemistry who’s willing to accept payment in kind.  Your _husband_ would know all about that.”

John’s head came up fast.

“Anderson,” Lestrade warned.

“And _you’d_ know all about being scared of shadows, Anderson,” Sherlock snarled, rising to his feet.

“What did you mean by that?” demanded John, using his cane to stand up as well.  “Sherlock, what’s he on about?”

Anderson stepped back from them, but persisted.  “I’m just saying that...”

“Anderson!” Lestrade roared.  “Stow it.  Now.  Sherlock, what have you got for me?”

“It rained in London yesterday.  There’s mud on the corpse’s shoes.”

“Ooooh, the great detective makes his deductions!” sneered Anderson.  “We all know it rained yesterday, Freak!”

“There would also have been mud on the dress shoes worn by the killer, a man of about my height but with a heavier build.”  Anderson stopped sneering.  Lestrade nodded and John grinned outright.  “And I’ll need the files for the other cases,” Sherlock went on.

Lestrade’s eyebrows went up.  “How d’you know there’s other cases?”

Sherlock looked pointedly at Anderson.  “ _Another_ one of these druggies?”

“Fair enough.  How do you know about the killer?”

“Your people have trampled the mud down the centre of the alley like a herd of cattle.  Fortunately last night there was a puddle in the centre.  It’s dried since, but both the killer and the victim were forced to walk along the wall on their way to this room.  Only the killer came back out.”

“Show me the prints and I’ll make sure you get the files.”

Sherlock was only too happy to show Lestrade the footprints that Lestrade’s own people had missed.  Assured that he’d receive the files as soon as Lestrade had a chance, Sherlock strode off down the alley towards the street.

John was about to follow him when Donovan sidled up.  “It’s one of those arranged marriages, isn’t it?”

“I don’t see how that’s any of your business, Sergeant.”

“Oh, it’s not – but it _is_ yours and your _husband_ hasn’t told you everything you need to know.”  With that Donovan sauntered off again.

John had barely joined Sherlock on the pavement when Sherlock hailed another ride for them. 

“Cromwell Hospital,” he told the driver.  And then to John, “New Scotland Yard has all their autopsies done there.”

“Won’t the autopsy details be in the files that Lestrade’s sending?”

“Yes, but it will be _hours_ before those show up.”  Sherlock threw himself back against the seat dramatically, as if illustrating the horror of being forced to wait _hours_.

John found the display amusing but decided that a change of subject was in order.  “Is Cromwell Hospital new?  I haven’t heard of it before.”

“You’d know it as St Bart’s, but the Committee aren’t keen on saints.”

“Oh.  All right.  Er – Cromwell was someone important in the Revolution?”

“So to speak.  Oliver Cromwell was one of the leaders of a 17th century rebellion against Charles I.  Unsuccessful, of course.”

John frowned as he tried to recall his history classes from school.  “I thought that was Wat Tyler?”

“Off by three centuries, but your knowledge of history is hardly worse than the Committee’s.  They’ve adopted both Tyler and Cromwell as revolutionary forbears.  Can’t have people think they’ve imported the concept of republicanism wholesale from the French.”

“As the Canadians and Americans did?” asked John drily.

“Just so.  Especially considering that the UBR has significant differences in political and economic structure.”

After this Sherlock seemed to lapse into a sort of reverie that lasted until they arrived at the former St Bart’s.  Then he sprang from the car, leaving John to pay the driver as before.  It occurred to John that he really needed to get hold of some British currency so that he could save his Canadian dollars for true emergencies.

Once inside the hospital John looked around for Sherlock, only to be spotted by someone else instead.

“John!  John Watson!”

John turned to see an overweight man approaching.  Brown hair, brown eyeglasses, white coat.

“Stamford.  Mike Stamford.  We were in uni together.”

“Yes, sorry, yes, Mike.”  John took the hand Mike offered and shook it.  “Hello, hi.”

“Yeah, I know.  I got fat!”

John made a try at sounding convincing.  “No.”

“So what happened after you, well...”  Mike stopped, his face reddening slightly.  It was obvious that he was recalling only now the terms under which John had left uni.

John shrugged, feeling a bit sorry for the man.  “Lots of things.  At least a pint’s worth.”

“Right then, we should do that sometime, go for a pint.”

“So, are you practicing here?”

Mike brightened.  “Teaching now.  Bright young things, like we used to be.  God, I hate them!”

John made himself laugh.

“What about you?  In London on a visit?”

“I just moved here from Canada, actually.  Apparently London needs doctors.”

“Too right we do!  But wait, that means...”

“I finished medical school at the University of Toronto on a scholarship from the Canadian Forces,” John said proudly.

“Good for you!  The Canadian Forces?  I see what you mean about that pint.  Any specialties?”

“Did trauma surgery for two years before an accident left me with nerve damage in my dominant arm.  I retrained as a GP and practiced for another four years.”

“That’s the John Watson I remember!”  Mike grinned.  “Nothing keeps you down!  But you haven’t been assigned anywhere particular in London yet?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Then would you mind if I put a word in with our Committee liaison?”

“Not at all, I’d appreciate it.”  John’s smile was genuine this time.  It felt good to be recognized as valuable.

“Well, I mustn’t keep you.  What brings you here today, anyway?”

“I’m here with Sherlock, my...”

“Sherlock Holmes?  He’s probably down in the morgue with Molly.  Come on, I’ll take you there.”

Molly?  Who was Molly?

John had his answer soon enough when he and Mike almost collided with a young woman who came flying out of a doorway.

“Oh, I’m so sorry!  Mike?  Were you looking for me?  I’m just going to get Sherlock a coffee.  I asked him if he’d like to have coffee and he misunderstood, my fault, I should have been more clear, I _will_ be next time.  But he noticed my lipstick!  I’ll be right back, okay?”

And she took off down the corridor.

“Molly Hooper, pathology registrar,” Mike explained as they watched her go.

“Is she always like that?” John asked, somewhat incredulously.

“Only when Sherlock’s involved,” Mike assured him.

There was John’s answer then.  Sherlock had a girlfriend.  You’d think he would have mentioned her before.

Mike was already pushing through the door, announcing, “Sherlock!  Someone looking for you.”

Sherlock looked up from the report he was reading.  “Oh, John.  I thought you were here already.”

Mike chuckled.  “I’ll leave you two to it.”  And he did.

“So,” said John as casually as he could.  “Molly.”

“Competent pathologist, reasonably intelligent, occasional flashes of excellence,” replied Sherlock.

“And your girlfriend.”

“Girlfriend?  No, not really my area.  Look at this.  Two previous similar cases.  Both corpses had particulate matter in their nostrils.  Molly, can I see the actual samples...  Where’s Molly?”

“She went to get you a coffee.”

“Why?  I don’t want coffee, I want the samples to compare them with the one I took from today’s corpse.”

“Look, Sherlock, about Molly...” John began.

But then the woman herself entered, carrying a mug of coffee which she handed to Sherlock.  Sherlock stared at it, then shrugged and took it.  “I hope you remembered that I take _two_ sugars.  Oh.  What happened to the lipstick?”

Molly fidgeted nervously under his gaze.  “It wasn’t working for me.”

“Really?  I thought it was a big improvement.  Your mouth’s too small now.”  Sherlock took a sip of coffee.  “Can I see the samp...”

John interrupted, stepping forward.  “Dr Hooper?  Dr John Watson.”  He extended a hand, which she took gingerly.  “Sherlock speaks highly of your work.”

Molly turned pink and actually smiled a little.  Pretty woman, when she wasn’t dithering over Sherlock.  Pretty eyes, nice hair.

“Are you a colleague of Sherlock’s?” she asked.

And of course, oh, _of course_ , Sherlock the arsehole said, “John’s my husband.  I need to see the samples of the particulate matter you found in the corpses’ nostrils.”

Watching Molly’s face was like watching a building collapse.  Not a grand building but a small, well-made, pretty one.  Then she visibly pulled herself together – hmmm, thought John, tougher than she looks at first – and replied, “Certainly.  I’ll get them.”

Within moments, Sherlock and Molly were completely focused on a large microscope, arguing over similarities – many, apparently – and differences between the particulate matter found in Molly’s corpses’ nostrils and that found in Sherlock’s.  Both appeared to have forgotten John entirely, so it was a something of a relief when Mike reappeared at the door with another man in tow.

“Mr Newbold, Dr Watson.  John, Walter Newbold is the hospital’s Committee liaison.  If you’re free for a short conversation?  The cafeteria here serves decent coffee.”

“So I’ve heard,” John replied.  “Lead on.”

The coffee was indeed decent, and the conversation reasonably pleasant.  John fielded several political-sounding questions from Newbold with bland generalities, appealing to his recent arrival when he was unsure how to reply.  Mike kept nodding encouragingly, and Newbold eventually declared himself satisfied.

“I’ll have no problems clearing your application for employment at the Cromwell and would recommend that you submit it as soon as possible.  Dr Stamford can assist you with the necessary forms.”

“Ha!” said Mike after Newbold had left.  “Are you up for a bit of paperwork?  Nothing like striking while the iron’s hot.”

The paperwork turned out to be more than “a bit,” but eventually John made his way back to the morgue, where he found Molly conspicuously alone and indeed, rather surprised to see him.

“Oh, are you still here?  I mean, not that you can’t be.  But Sherlock left ages ago.”

John sighed.  “Did he say where he was going?”

“Er, no.  He doesn’t, usually.  He just... goes.”

“All right, then, thanks.”  John turned to go – and then turned back.  “Look, Dr Hooper, I’d like to apologize for Sherlock’s behaviour earlier.  No one should be treated like that.”

“He doesn’t mean it, he just doesn’t think, well, no, that’s not right.  He thinks all the time!  But about corpses and crimes, not things like...”

“Common courtesy?”

“Well, yes.  But you’d know, being his h-, h-, husband and all.”

“Yes.  I know,” John replied a bit ruefully.  Better not to mention that the marriage was arranged, or that he’d been gone for 14 years.  Kinder not to give Molly false hope.

Molly bit her lip.  “Did he really say that?  About my work?  Or were you just making it up so I’d feel better?”

“He really did say that.  And... I never lie to pretty ladies.”  Molly looked at John, startled, and then blushed when he gave her a wink before leaving.

***

The upside of Sherlock’s abandonment was that Sherlock was going to have to pay his own cab fare.  It was three miles from St Bar... the Cromwell to Baker Street.  John could walk as long as his leg would stand for it and begin reacquainting himself with London, then hail one of those amateur cabs.  And he should pick up some groceries, although Sherlock was going to have to do something with the head in the refrigerator.

As it turned out, John had just passed Chancery Lane when a black car, larger and finer than any automobile he’d seen in the UBR so far, pulled up alongside him.  The driver, a burly, grim-faced man in a black suit, got out and handed John one of those blocky cell phones.

Suspecting that he didn’t have any choice in the matter, John accepted it.  “Er, hello?”

A man’s voice replied.  “There is a security camera on the building to your left.  Do you see it?”

John frowned.  “Who’s this?  Who’s speaking?”

“Do you see the camera, Dr Watson?”

“Yeah, I see it.”

“Watch.”  The camera, which had been pointing directly at John, swiveled away.

“There is another camera on the building opposite you.  Do you see it?”

John looked across to spot a second camera, also pointed at him.  When had London become infested by security cameras?

“Mmm-hmm,” he told the voice.

The camera immediately swiveled away.

“And finally, at the top of the building on your right.”

John stared up into the third camera watching him, which promptly turned away.

“How are you doing this?” he demanded of the voice.

“Get into the car, Dr Watson,” the voice replied.  The grim driver opened the rear door and pointedly held it for John.  “I would make some sort of threat, but I’m sure your situation is quite clear to you.”

John got into the car, handed over the phone on request and sat back as the driver turned off down a side street.  John attempted to keep track of their route, but he quickly became lost in the maze.  He wasn’t even sure how long they’d been travelling when the car pulled into an almost-empty warehouse.

A tall, slim man in a three-piece suit stood in the centre of the area, leaning nonchalantly on an umbrella as he watched John get out of the car.  As John limped towards him, leaning on his cane, the man used his umbrella to point towards a straight-backed armless chair facing him.  “Have a seat, John.”

John kept his voice calm.  “This is very clever and all, but whatever you have to say, you could have said it on the phone.”

He continued on until he was past the chair, standing a few paces away from the man, who smiled pleasantly.  “Some things are best discussed face to face – and not in public places.  The leg must be hurting you.”

And then more sternly, “Sit down.”

“I don’t wanna sit down.”

The man looked at him curiously.  “You don’t seem very afraid.”

“You don’t seem very frightening.”

The man chuckled.  “Ah, yes. The bravery of the soldier. Bravery is by far the kindest word for stupidity, don’t you think?”  He looked at John sternly.  “What are your intentions regarding Sherlock Holmes?”

“I don’t have any, at least not yet.  Until, well, yesterday...” Had it only been that long?  “Until yesterday I hadn’t seen him for 14 years and never expected to see him again.”

“Mmm, and since yesterday he’s taken you to a crime scene and introduced you to all of his acquaintances.”

It was time to counter-attack.  “Who are you?”

“An interested party.”

“Interested in Sherlock?  Why?  I’m guessing you’re not friends.”

“You’ve met him.  How many ‘friends’ do you imagine he has?  I am the closest thing to a friend that Sherlock Holmes is capable of having.”

“And what’s that?”

“An enemy.”

“An enemy?”

“In his mind, certainly.  If you were to ask him, he’d probably say his arch-enemy.  He does love to be dramatic.”

John looked pointedly around the warehouse.  “Well, thank God you’re above all that.”

The man pursed his thin lips.  “’God’ has nothing to do with it.”

_The Committee aren’t keen on saints._

Sherlock had said that. 

“You’re a member of this Committee that everyone keeps talking about, aren’t you?”

The man shrugged.  “Do you plan to continue your association with Sherlock Holmes?”

“I could be wrong... but I think that’s none of your business.”

“It could be.”  The tone was a bit ominous.

“It really couldn’t,” replied John.

The man stared at him thoughtfully for a moment and then appeared to change tack.  “If you _do_ plan to continue your association, I’d be happy to pay you a meaningful sum of money on a regular basis to ease your way.”

“Why?” John asked suspiciously.

“Because your supply of Canadian dollars is going to run out eventually.”

“I’ve already applied for a job.”

“Your application is, of course, subject to Committee approval.”  The man smiled blandly.  The smile didn’t reach his eyes.

“The money – what’s it in exchange for”

“Information.  Nothing indiscreet.  Nothing you’d feel... uncomfortable with.  Just tell me what he’s up to.”

“Why?”

“I worry about him.  Constantly.”

Right, thought John, and Jean Poutine was the Prime Minister of Canada.  “That’s nice of you.”

“But I would prefer for various reasons that my concern go unmentioned.  We have what you might call a... difficult relationship.”

“No.”

“But I haven’t mentioned a figure.”

“Don’t bother.”

The man’s laugh was brief.  “You’re very loyal, very quickly.”

“No, I’m not.  I’m just not interested.”

The man looked at him closely for a moment, then took a notebook out of his inside pocket and opened it.  “What can you tell me about the woman known, among other names, as Mary Elizabeth Morstan?”

John startled and then cursed himself.  No way his interrogator hadn’t caught that reaction.  “Nothing.  Ask CSIS.”

“Nothing?  Yet you cohabited with her for three years.  She was carrying your child.”

The simmering anger that underlay John’s calm began to rise.  “She was carrying _a_ child.  She left.  I don’t know where.”

“After which you decided to return to the UBR.  What do you expect to find here, Dr Watson?  You’re no traumatized soldier freshly returned from the battlefield.  You’ve spent the past eight years studying medicine, practicing medicine, playing at soldier on the weekends...”

John bit back an angry retort.  Being a member of the Primary Reserve was no game, not that this besuited toff would know anything about it.

“...and in the past four years, beginning to move towards presumably blissful domesticity.  If you’re looking to continue that pattern of behaviour, Sherlock Holmes is the wrong choice of companion.”

“If that’s so, I’ll find it out for myself eventually.”

“Or you can save everyone time and trouble by listening now.”  The man began to walk towards John.  “Most people blunder round this city, and all they see are streets and shops and cars.  When you walk with Sherlock Holmes, you see the battlefield.”

They were face to face now.  John had to lift his chin to maintain eye contact.  The man lowered his voice, “You’ve seen it already, haven’t you?”

“Nothing I’ve seen or heard in London frightens me,” replied John, equally low.  “That includes you and everything you’ve said.”

The man raised an eyebrow.  “Really.  You need to choose a side, Dr Watson, and you need to do so soon.”

He walked away, twirling his umbrella as he vanished into the warehouse depths.

John heard the driver clear his throat behind him.  When he turned, the man was holding the rear door of the car open.

“If you’re taking me home, I need to stop for groceries on the way.”

The driver’s expression didn’t change.  “Please get in the car, sir.”  His voice was a gravelly bass.

Perched on the rear seat were two plastic shopping bags, one with a loaf of bread sticking out of the top.  John stared at them a moment, then got in.

***

Sherlock was already home when John arrived.  The mess in the sitting room had acquired a new layer of books, all opened to specific pages, as well as some new file folders, one of which Sherlock was studying.

“The Committee...  Do its members wear posh suits and carry umbrellas and control security cameras and have people pulled off the street to be interrogated in empty warehouses?”

“That sounds familiar.”

“And have their lackeys buy groceries for the people they’ve interrogated?”

“Not so familiar.  Did he offer you money to spy on me?”

“Yes.”  Good, thought John, Sherlock knows this bloke and can tell me what’s going on.

“Did you take it?”

What?  “No.”

“Pity.  We could have split the fee.  Think it through next time.  And always insist on hard currency.”

Sherlock returned to his file folder.  So much for telling John what was going on.  Shaking his head, John took the groceries into the kitchen to put them away.

“Where were you anyway?” he asked over his shoulder.

“Shopping.”

Of course.  They’d _both_ brought home groceries.  He and Mary used to do that all the time.

Hmmm, they’d need space in the refrigerator for all the groceries.

“Sherlock, I’m afraid the head in the refrigerator is going to have to go.”

“I was done with it anyway.  I’ve already gotten rid of it.”

“Good,” John replied, about to open the refrigerator door.  Then he paused.  “You didn’t, ah, put it in the bin, did you?”

“Of course not.”  Sherlock sounded offended.  “I had Billy take it back to Molly.”

Which was at least better than having it sitting in the bin, although the ethics of using a teenager to deliver body parts was debatable.  John opened the refrigerator and discovered it to be almost completely empty except for a plastic container.  He picked up the container just as Sherlock added, “She sent back a pair of diseased livers.”

John put the container back in the refrigerator and began to arrange his groceries well away from it.

But speaking of Molly...

“You said girlfriends weren’t your area,” he said as casually as possible.  “D’you have a boyfriend?”

Sherlock looked up from his file and stared at John.

“Which is fine, by the way.”  Not _preferable_ , but fine. 

“I _know_ it’s fine,” replied Sherlock sharply.

That focused cerulean gaze was unnerving John.  “After all, it’s been 14 years, it would be entirely natural, I was hardly celibate myself...”  Damn, now he was babbling.

“John,” Sherlock interrupted.  “I’m well aware that the circumstances of our marriage were hardly conducive to fidelity.  Furthermore, I’ve always considered my _true_ marriage to be to my work.”  With that, he returned to his file folder.

And that’s you told, thought John ruefully as he finished putting the groceries away.  Probably just as well.  Sherlock was brilliant and gorgeous, but at heart he was the same brat John had met 14 years ago.

He put the kettle on for tea and considered the possibility of an early supper, seeing how he’d missed lunch.  “Sherlock, I’m making toasted cheese.  D’you want some?”

“I never eat during a case.  Eating slows me down.”

“I’m pretty sure it doesn’t,” John replied mildly, preparing a couple of extra slices just in case.  “Do you do all your research from books and papers?  I was told not to bother bringing my laptop because there was no Internet access here.”

“That’s correct.  What we have instead is UBRnet, colloquially referred to as Uber.  It requires special hardware to access, which a foreign-made laptop wouldn’t have.  It’s of limited use in any case, as all content must be approved by the Committee.   There are at least more scientific papers posted than there used to be.”

“Medical papers?”

“Some.  I’ve got a laptop around here somewhere.”  Sherlock waved a hand to indicate the sitting room generally.  “You’re welcome to have a look yourself.”

“Ta.  Oh, on the subject of technology, where would I buy a British cell phone?”

“They’re called mobile phones here.”

“A mobile phone then.  The job application I filled out today asked for a phone number.  Mike said to write down his, but I can see I’m going to need a phone of my own.”

Sherlock was already reading again.  “Bedroom,” he said offhandedly.

“What?”

“ _Bedroom._  I loathe repeating myself.”

Fine, thought John, and went into the bedroom.  In the centre of the bed lay a box.  In the box was a brand new mobile phone.

_“Where were you anyway?”_

_“Shopping.”_

Sherlock had bought him a mobile phone?  That was... unexpectedly considerate.  And unless British etiquette was quite different from Canadian in this regard, it wasn’t the kind of gift one would buy for a casual acquaintance who was only staying a few days.

John took his new phone back into the kitchen to play with while he ate his supper.  There was one number already programmed in.  It was labeled “SH.”

“Sherlock, thank you.  This was very, ah, thoughtful of you.”  To John’s ears his own voice sounded awkward and stilted.

But Sherlock merely shrugged.  “It will be convenient for me to have a way to contact you.”

Right.  Of course.  It was all about Sherlock’s convenience.

After supper, John set about locating Sherlock’s laptop.  This proved to be easier than he’d first thought because the moment he began shifting books and papers about, Sherlock leapt up, declaring that John was moving things “out of order.”

John refrained from entering into a debate on the existence of order in the mess and instead mildly pointed out that he was merely looking for the laptop that Sherlock had _already_ given John permission to use.  After some grumbling and a few false starts, Sherlock excavated the laptop – a blocky thing that couldn’t have weighed less than a stone – and showed John how to access Uber.

As Sherlock had warned him, it was nothing like the internet.  Most of the available content consisted of dry-as-dust government reports.  John read through a few on the state of the healthcare system, although he took them with large chunk of salt.  More interesting were the medical articles published by British doctors, several of which John bookmarked for future reading.  And then there was...

“Sherlock, I’ve found something that looks like a personal notices section?”

“Britchit.”

“What?”

Sherlock heaved a put-upon sigh.  “BritChat, colloquially referred to as Britchit.  Sometimes the ‘r’ is dropped.  It’s our esteemed Committee’s attempt to foster free expression and personal communication.  Of course all posts must approved by Committee lackeys, which means that it takes at least 24 hours for new posts to appear and they’re edited to remove anything deemed unfavourable to the government.  Still, it has its uses.  People tend to be so concerned with avoiding anything that might draw the government’s wrath that they’re careless about posting things that are incriminating in other ways.”

“Flatmate needed immediately, central London, all mod cons.  Must be tolerant of sexually adventurous lifestyle.  Willingness to participate a plus.  07623 207080,” John read.

“The Committee’s not particularly prudish,” Sherlock noted.  “It is, however, concerned that efficient use should be made of all available housing units.  The poster is attempting to find a compatible flatmate before the Committee assigns someone rather less so.”

“Good luck to him.  Or her, as the case may be.”  John had scrolled through another few posts – there was no apparent character limit and some were quite lengthy – when a thought struck him.  From the look of the flat, Sherlock had already been living here for some time before John showed up.  Why hadn’t he already had a flatmate?  Of course he could have just lost one, but John had seen no signs of anyone else living here recently.     

Had Umbrella Man scared them all off?  Unlikely.  Any number of potential flatmates would have jumped at the chance to earn money for information.

Would he get any answers by asking Sherlock outright?

Right, never mind.

Eventually John decided that he’d seen enough of Britchit and went back to one of the medical articles.  When he found himself yawning at the screen, he decided it was time to turn in.  He shut the laptop down.

“Good night, Sherlock.”  No response from Sherlock, who appeared to be trying to read three books at once.  John left him to it.


	3. Chapter 3

In John’s dreams that night he walked endless corridors, a maze composed of every hospital, university and government building he’d ever been in.  He kept running into people he recognized – Harry, Molly, Mike, Bill, Lestrade, Umbrella Man, Mrs Hudson.  They all wanted him to stop and chat.  Umbrella Man even offered him money to do so.  But the person John most wanted to speak with was always just ahead, just barely out of sight.  John would have called to them to stop and wait if he could have remembered their name.

When John came out into the sitting room the next morning, the first thing he spotted was Sherlock asleep on the sofa, his head and shoulders propped against the cushions at one end and his hands folded on his stomach.  He’d changed out of his suit into grey pyjamas and a blue dressing gown.

What had John been thinking, to let Sherlock talk him into taking the bed and leaving Sherlock the sofa?  The sofa was long enough to be barely tolerable for John.  But for Sherlock?  Just looking at his position made John’s neck ache.

They’d arrange things differently, tonight.

Having made this resolution, John was about to turn away and put the kettle on when he realized that Sherlock’s eyes were open and his lips were moving.

“Sherlock?”

“Sterndale,” Sherlock replied.  Then he blinked.  “Oh, John, you’re here.  Why would you follow a stranger into an isolated room that could be sealed off?”

“I wouldn’t.  Do you want tea?”

“Two sugars.  And yet all three of them did.”

“Are you sure it wasn’t someone all three of them knew?”  John found a pair of reasonably clean-looking mugs, then rinsed them out for good measure.

“Not impossible but doubtful.”

“Toast?”  John held up a slice of bread for emphasis.

“I’m on a case.”

Right, but that hadn’t stopped the two pieces of toasted cheese that John had placed next to Sherlock last evening from vanishing.  There was, of course, a chance that they’d ended up under the sofa.  John’d had a girlfriend for awhile whose cat had disposed of unwanted food that way.  He’d check under the sofa later, but in the meantime he’d make extra toast.

“Let me phrase it more generally.  What sort of stranger would most people trust?”

“Well, people usually trust doctors.”

Sherlock looked extremely dubious.

“And religious figures – priests, ministers, rabbis, that sort of thing.  The hospital chaplain and I got to talking about it one slow night in the ER when I was doing my residency.  Jam...”

“Oh!” Sherlock leapt up from the sofa.  “John, you have the potential to become genuinely useful.  We need to go interview the next-of-kin.”

“Didn’t the police already do that?”

“The police will have missed everything of importance.  Come along.  The game’s afoot!”

“First, you’re wearing pyjamas and you’re in need of a shower.  Second, the tea’s almost ready and I’m not going anywhere before I’ve had at least one cup and a piece of toast.  Do you want jam on your toast?  It’s some kind of pricey stuff that comes in a little pot.”

“Case.  Also, I prefer honey.  Shower... you may be correct.”  Sherlock reached up, ran his fingers through his hair and then sniffed at them.  As he did so, his dressing gown sleeve fell back.

“Hang on, there.  What’s that on your arm?  Those patches?”

Sherlock sniffed again, this time at nothing in particular.  “The Committee decided that too much money was leaving the country in exchange for imported tobacco.  They’ve banned tobacco products until domestic tobacco cultivation can be established.  The Semois lines are showing some promise.  In the meantime we’re expected to make do with synthetic nicotine patches.”

“Sherlock, you’re wearing _three_ of them.”

“It takes at least three to produce any noticeable effect.”

“Yeah, that’s probably because you’re _over-habituated_ , genius.  Lose the patches, shower and dress.”

Sherlock glared. “You have ten minutes, John, no more.”  He flounced out of the room.

Umbrella Man’s lackeys apparently knew Sherlock’s preferences, because an equally pricey-looking pot of honey had been provided along with the jam.  Sherlock reappeared almost 15 minutes later (“Wrong – not more than 13 minutes, 17 seconds”), drank a cup of tea, ate half a piece of toast with honey and then more or less dragged John out the door.

***

Raymond Stevens was a greengrocer, probably in his mid-30s although his obvious signs of grief made him look older.  His neatly arranged shop stood next to a lending library.

“More questions?” he asked wearily.  “I thought I’d answered them all yesterday.”

“We just need to follow up on a few details,” Sherlock assured him.  “Your wife’s...” and here Sherlock drew two fingers down in a V on his upper chest.

“Her cross!” exclaimed Stevens, brightening a bit.  “Did you bring it?  The other detective said that it was evidence but that they’d return it to me as soon as possible.  It was her mother’s and meant a lot to her.  I wanted it to b-bu-bur... ”

His face started to crumple.  He took a deep breath and finished, “To go with her.  In the end.”  Then he turned his face away.

Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, but John touched Sherlock’s shoulder and shook his own head.  Let Stevens have a moment to compose himself.

When he turned back to face Sherlock and John, his eyes were still wet.  “Sorry.”

“Quite understandable,” replied Sherlock.  “I don’t have the cross with me, but I’ll ensure it’s returned to you.  Did your wife often wear it outside of the house?”

“No, she didn’t.  That’s what’s a bit strange.  After all, it’s not...  it’s not _fashionable_ nowadays, is it?”

Sherlock lowered his voice and leaned in a bit towards Stevens.  “These are difficult times for those raised in the true faith.”

Stevens relaxed visibly.  “You know, then.  It was harder on Angie than on me, to be honest.  She really missed going to services.  Her faith got her through some hard times.  She lost both parents and had to go out to work when she was still young.  She used to say that scrubbing floors for a living is hard work even if they’re royal floors!  Oh, I probably shouldn’t have said that?”

“I don’t see any need to include that statement in my report,” Sherlock assured him.  And then with a hint of a smile, “I’d assume that at least the floors were of high enough quality to be _almost_ worthy of her attentions?”

Stevens gave him a watery smile.  “Eh, nothing’s worth my Angie.  But you’re right, she saw some pretty fancy surroundings.  Sometimes she tells me stories... she told me stories... she, Angie, she...”  He started to cry again.

Apparently at a loss, Sherlock looked at John, who stepped forward.  “We apologize for having bothered you at this time, Mr Stevens.  The information you’ve given us will further our investigation.  Is there anyone we can call for you?”

“No, no.  I’m...  I _will_ be fine.”  Stevens straightened up and looked John in the eye.  “ _Find_ the arsehole who killed my Angie, you hear?”        

 ***

Pauline Antonelli stood behind the counter of her pub, glaring at Sherlock.  John was surprised to realize how many names he didn’t recognize in the line of beer taps behind her.  What, for example, was W&T Bitter?

“I’ve already answered plenty of questions, not that anything’s been done towards finding Joe’s murderer.  I’ve got a business to run.”

“Mrs Antonelli,” Sherlock began, “We can’t find the murderer without sufficient information.”  His patience, never plentiful, was obviously beginning to fray.  “If you would just...”

John interrupted.  “Was Joe in the army?”  As Pauline turned to stare at him, Sherlock quickly looked in the direction John had been looking.  His mouth shaped an “o.”

“It’s just that the mug there, off to one side, it’s got the badge of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers on it.”

“Now how would you come to recognize that?” Pauline asked warily.

“I joined the Fifth Northumberland myself, 14 years ago.  Served three years, before, well...”

“Well, indeed,” Pauline replied in a softer tone.  “My Joe served with the Fifth before your time.  He was on leave when we met and started courting.  I told him I didn’t want to be an army widow raising children on her own.  He had a good record, his superiors liked him, so he managed a transfer to the... a different regiment, one stationed here in London.  He served there until the Revolution.  We opened the pub after that.”

“My condolences to both you and your children,” said John.

“We only had the one, a son.  Eighteen when the Revolution came.  Were you in London then?”

John shook his head.

“Riots in the streets, people shooting.  My husband Joe was one of the ones shooting.  Our son, Joe Jr, he wasn’t ever involved.  I made sure of that.  But he was in the wrong place at the wrong time.  My son’s been gone these 14 years.  Now my husband’s gone too.  So what were these questions you wanted to ask?”

“May I use your loo?” Sherlock replied.

John turned to stare at him in disbelief.

Pauline looked decidedly unimpressed, but she pointed to a short corridor leading off the pub’s main room.  “That way.”

She and John watched Sherlock go.  “He new on the force?” she asked.

John nodded.  “Just transferred in.  And about to be transferred right out again, if he doesn’t shape up.”

“Good.”

A couple of customers came in, young blokes, and Pauline moved down the bar to serve them.

John was wool-gathering as he waited for Sherlock to return when he heard the pub’s main door open and shut again.  He glanced in that direction – and froze.  For a horrible moment, he thought he was looking at his uncle Andrew.  But no, Andrew would be older now than the man who stared back at him, red-faced, sweating, a good three stone overweight and apparently just as shocked as John was. 

“Ah, John Watson?”

John gave him a wary nod.

“David Watson.  Your cousin.”  Neither of them offered to shake hands.

And then, “Just so you’re clear, there’s nothing left of Da’s business.  I had to rebuild from scratch after the Revolution.  Everything I’ve got...”

It took a moment for David’s meaning to sink in, and when it did...  “I’m not here about the bloody business!”  John barely restrained himself from snarling.

David blinked.  “Oh.  Then what brings you back to London?  I figured we’d seen the last of you after you ran away from that posh kid Da married you off to.”

Whatever reply John might have made was forestalled by a rich baritone voice behind him.  “You didn’t rebuild your business on your own.  You’ve got a partner, technically an equal partner but in fact he plays a dominant role, which you resent.  You don’t dare say anything, particularly as in recent years the business hasn’t been doing as well as it used to.  Your wife’s ill.  You used that as an excuse to leave the office early today, but instead of going home you’re here.  In fact, you arranged to meet someone here.  Not for sexual or romantic purposes.  You haven’t made any effort to improve your appearance, although to be honest, that’s something of a lost cause.  It’s the wrong neighbour for a business-related meeting.  So why _are_ you here?”

David had gone pale.

Chuckling softly, John laid a hand on Sherlock’s arm, glancing down the bar as he did so to make sure that Pauline was out of earshot.  “That’s amazing, love.  Sherlock, this is my cousin, David Watson.  You met his father at our wedding.  David, my husband, Sherlock Holmes.”

Sherlock smiled like a shark, all teeth, and extended a hand that David took with obvious reluctance.

“John, we must be going.  David, so lovely to meet you.”

They left David staring after them, rubbing his hand.  Sherlock’s grasp had been perhaps somewhat more firm than necessary.

***

“’May I use your loo?’  _Really?_ ”

“No, I didn’t ‘really’ need to relieve myself.  There was a private office further down the corridor.  Locked door but a common type of lock, easy to pick.  And since Mrs Antonelli had already dismissed me as an idiot, she didn’t bother keeping an eye on me.”

“Remind me never to make the same mistake,” muttered John as they continued along the pavement. Then, in a more conversational voice, “How’d you do that, with David?”

“What, show him up as an idiot?  It wasn’t difficult.”

John laughed.  “No, I meant the details.”

“The man needs to buy a jacket with larger pockets.  Envelope he forgot to mail sticking out of one pocket.  The return address is for Pecksniff & Watson, Brokers.  Your cousin doesn’t have first billing.  Small bag from a pharmacy sticking out of the other pocket, complete with label.  He picked up something ending in -mycin for Patricia Watson.  Kept glancing out the window as we spoke, expecting someone.  Well-made clothes and shoes, would have originally been quite pricey but they’re being worn past the time a well-off man would replace them.  He can no longer afford to.”

“I was right, you _are_ amazing.”

Sherlock preened a little, but then pointed out, “You could have observed the same details.  You spotted the mug tucked in among the bottles.”

“Maybe, but I couldn’t have observed all that and pulled it together as quickly as you did.”

This time Sherlock’s preen was a little more blatant.     

Their third destination turned out to be a small shop down a side street.  The window was painted to read “Pawnbroker and Jewellery Repair.”  There was a “Closed” sign on the door, and the entirety was festooned in yellow police tape.

“Jabez Wilson was a bachelor and almost 70 years old.  His only surviving family is a brother in Carlisle.”

“So who are we questioning?”

“We’re not.  We’re breaking in to have a look around.”

“Now wait a moment, Sherlock...”

“But not yet, we need to wait until after dark.”  Sherlock began walking again.  Willy-nilly, John followed.

This time they ended up in front of a small restaurant.  John couldn’t resist.  “I thought you never ate during a case?”

“I’m not eating.  You are.  If I don’t want to listen to you whinging while we’re breaking in, I need to feed you now.”

Before John could reply, Sherlock had entered the restaurant.  John followed to see him shaking hands with the apparent owner, a genial, heavyset man with a greying beard and ponytail.

“John, this is Angelo.”  John found his own hand enveloped in Angelo’s warm, meaty one.

Angelo led them to a table by the window.  He laid two menus on the table and announced, “On the house, Sherlock for you _and_ for your date.”

John waited for Sherlock, who’d introduced John to everyone _else_ he knew as his husband, to correct Angelo.  Sherlock, however, appeared to be studying the menu, so John made the attempt.  “I’m not his date, I’m...”

“This man got me off a murder charge,” interrupted Angelo.

Sherlock looked up from the menu.  “Three years ago I successfully proved to Lestrade at the time of a particularly vicious triple murder that Angelo was in a completely different part of town, housebreaking.”

“He cleared my name.”

“I cleared it a _bit_.”

“But for this man, I’d have gone to prison.”

“You _did_ go to prison.”

Angelo continued to ignore Sherlock as he told John, “I’ll get a candle for the table. It’s more romantic.” 

With that he walked away, leaving John to sputter, “I’m not his date!”

Sherlock put his own menu down onto the table.  “If Angelo finds out that you’re my husband just returned after 14 years away, he’s either going to organize an impromptu anniversary feast or take you out back and knock you around with a frying pan for being gone so long.  Actually, he might knock you around first and _then_ organize a feast.  Up to you, but I rather thought you’d prefer to enjoy a quiet meal of excellent food.”

Angelo came back with a small glass bowl containing a lit tea-light.  He put it onto the table and gave John a thumbs-up before turning and walking away again.

“Thanks!” John called to Angelo’s retreating back.  He frowned at the menu. 

“I’d suggest the capellini al gamberetti,” Sherlock said.

“That’s not squid or octopus or anything like that, is it?”

“Crustaceans, not mollusks.”

“Er, thanks.  I think.”

Capellini al gamberetti turned out to be shrimp on very fine pasta – and delicious.  It came with a green salad, which John made a discreet pretense of ignoring once he realized that Sherlock was picking bits and pieces out of it with his fingers.  If Sherlock was willing to eat at least John’s salad, then John was willing to give it up.

“What you said to Raymond Stevens, about the ‘true faith’...”

“After the Revolution, the Church of England was outlawed due to its close ties to the British monarchy.  The practice of other sects and religions is technically not illegal, but it’s heavily discouraged.  According to the Committee, ‘religion is the opium of the masses.’  Of course they’ve outlawed opium as well.”

“Yes, I remember Anderson saying...”

“Why are you mentioning Anderson while we’re eating?”

“Sorry, good point.”

“So far we know that two of the three victims were practicing Christians, possibly Anglicans, and that both were also employed at royal residences.”

“How do we know that about Joe Antonelli?  No, wait.  The office?”

Sherlock smirked.  “The office contained ledgers, files, papers, a recently purchased refurbished laptop – and a crucifix in a stand on the desk.  Mr Antonelli liked to take risks, but only to a limited degree.  In the event of an unscheduled inspection, the crucifix on the desk could be picked up and tossed into a drawer more easily than one hung on the wall _above_ the desk.”

“He had his regimental mug out where anyone could see it...”

“...but tucked away, so that most people wouldn’t _observe_ it.  And if his army service came up at all, he could use the Fifth Northumberland to draw attention away from his more recent service and his actions during the Revolution.”

John frowned, not understanding.

“The regiment stationed in London?” Sherlock prompted.

Light dawned.  “The King’s Guard.”

“Correct.  It remains to be seen if this pattern will continue with Jabez Wilson.”

John pushed a final strand of pasta around his plate.  “Sherlock, this evening...” he began.

“You have questions.”

“Well, I’ve, er, never done any housebreaking before.”  John felt mildly uncomfortable when Sherlock said nothing but continued to study John across the table.  Trying for a mild joke, John added, “Maybe you’d be better off taking Angelo.  He has experience.”

“So do I,” replied Sherlock, quite seriously.

And there it was.  “All right.  Housebreaking, lockpicking...”

“Drug manufacture and use.  You’re obviously wondering how much of Anderson’s babbling was the truth.”

“Now who’s mentioning Anderson?”

“We’re done eating.  I was sixteen when I came to London to start university.”

“That’s... rather young.”

“Nominally I was under the watchful eye of my older brother, at that time a junior clerk in government.  When the Revolution broke out a year later, my brother and I lost contact.”

_Riots in the streets, people shooting._

“The initial chaos eventually passed, leaving behind rubble.  I was seventeen, with one year of university, little practical knowledge of the world and the wrong sort of accent.  I did what I needed to do to survive – and what I needed to do to deal with what I needed to do to survive.”

Both Sherlock’s voice and gaze were steady as he laid his past out for John’s examination.

John’s were equally steady.

“You’re like me then.  We’ve both done what we needed to do.”  John raised the glass of mineral water he’d chosen in lieu of wine.  “Here’s to survival.”

Sherlock raised his own glass of water, and they drank.

“I have, to my knowledge, never killed anyone,” Sherlock added.

John’s smile was more than a bit grim.  “I was in the army.  I have experience.”

The dark mood was broken by Angelo’s arrival.  “Can I interest you gentlemen in dessert?”

Sherlock’s expression shifted so quickly that John blinked.  “Angelo, I’ve tasted your tiramisu.  I don’t intend to leave John here sprawled across the table in orgasmic bliss.  We have _plans_ for this evening.”      

“Oho!”  Angelo gave them a broad wink.  “Good luck to both of you!”  As he turned away, Sherlock rose from his seat.

“Shall we, John?”

***   

Sherlock ducked under the yellow tape without hesitation and led the way down the alley alongside the shop, John following.  “Wilson lived above his shop.  He wouldn’t have wanted to go through the shop every time he went in or out, so there must be...  Ah, here we are.”

“Here” was an unpretentious side door towards the rear of the building.  John stood between Sherlock and the street as Sherlock made quick work of the lock.  The staircase that greeted them inside was no harder for John to navigate than that at 221B, but it was no easier either.  By the time he reached the top, Sherlock was already exploring the first floor in the semi-darkness.

“Did you bring a torch?”

“Yes, but I won’t use it unless I find something worthwhile.  There’s a risk of the light being seeing, and the London light pollution provides enough illumination for a general look around.  Don’t touch anything, you’re not wearing gloves.”  Sherlock waved a gloved hand to indicate the space around them.  “These rooms were obviously Wilson’s living quarters.  He didn’t entertain much if at all.  The sitting room was used more as an office.”

John would have guessed as much from the large desk that dominated the room.

“Down this hallway... loo, bathroom.  Boring.  Let’s try the second floor.”

Another climb to the second floor.  On the landing they were met with a locked door.  “Interesting.  Better quality lock than the one in the alley.  I’ll need that torch now.”

There was a pause.

“Right trouser pocket,” added Sherlock impatiently.

Did Sherlock really expect...?  Apparently, yes.  John extracted the torch from the indicated pocket, turned it on and held it steady as Sherlock picked the lock.  Inside...

“Aha,” said Sherlock in tones of deep satisfaction.  He took the torch from John and began to examine the workbench.  To John’s eye, its array of precision tools was as diverse and well-organized as instruments in an operating room.

“The sign on the shop said jewellery repair,” John pointed out.

“This is more elaborate than the set-up he’d need for repair.  If I’m not mistaken, Wilson designed and created his own pieces as well.  Yet according to the police report, the only items for sale in his shop were unredeemed pledges.”

“Would the police know the difference?”

“Of course not.  But in the current economy there’s no market for new high-quality items.”

John nodded, thinking of the cars and the clothing.

“Unless Wilson was willing to sell his own work at far less than its value, he wouldn’t have been doing so in his pawnshop,” Sherlock continued.  He picked up a notebook that sat at one side of the workbench and began to leaf through it.  More notebooks and equipment were stacked on the shelves that stood behind the bench.

“Hmmm, classical design features...  Looks like work favoured a few decades ago, especially by...  Oh.  No, he wouldn’t have sold his own pieces in his shop.  If I’m correct, Wilson designed and created them out of sentiment for times gone by.”

Sherlock put the notebook down and ran his torch along the shelves.  He frowned at one shelf placed at waist height but hardly a hand’s breadth above the shelf beneath it.  “There was something Wilson wanted convenient to hand but not in plain sight.”  He passed the torch to John, reached into the narrow gap with his gloved hands and withdrew a large flat box of finely worked wood, which he opened.  The box proved to contain yet more precision jeweller’s tools.

The inside of the lid was engraved with the former royal coat of arms.

“A gift from Their Majesties, given in appreciation to the royal jeweller.”

Still holding the box, Sherlock stood lost in thought for some minutes.

Finally John said, “Sherlock?”

Sherlock stirred.  “Oh.  John.  You can turn off the torch now.”

John did so and tucked it into his jacket pocket. 

“What did you notice about the desk downstairs?” Sherlock continued.  He put the box back in its place and led John out of the workroom, locking the door behind them and starting down the stairs.

“It was large?  It... it wasn’t dusty.  He worked there a lot.”

“Very good.  What wasn’t on it?”

“What _wasn’t_ on it?”

“Stop repeating me and think.  Or rather, observe.”  They re-entered the sitting room, where John stared at the desk.  Paper, pens, a stapler, a coil of postage stamps...

Sherlock sighed and traced a large rectangular in the air, slightly above the surface of the desk.  It was about the shape and size of a...

“Laptop!” said John.

“Correct.  The way the other items are arranged on the desk indicates that a laptop usually sat among them.”

“And the police took it as evidence.”

“Also correct, but they won’t know what to look for.”

John didn’t bother asking if Sherlock knew.

They made their way down the stairs to the ground floor and slipped out into the alley.  Sherlock was checking to make sure the door had locked behind them when there was a yell from the mouth of the alley.  “Oi!  Who’s there?”

“Run!” hissed Sherlock.  John was right behind him as they rounded the corner of the building and found themselves in a dead end, with wooden fences on all sides.  Sherlock took a running jump and scaled the fence that separated Wilson’s building from the one behind it.  He paused at the top, reaching down with one hand.

John had just broken into a crime scene.  Someone, probably a _police_ someone, was chasing him down an alley.  He was facing a fence the likes of which he’d only dealt with previously in military training exercises.

How had all of this come about?

The answer was perched on top of the fence, offering John his only way out.  He took a deep breath and a running start of his own and managed to grab Sherlock’s hand in both his.  Sherlock grabbed John’s shoulder – his right one, fortunately – and hauled.  John pushed with his feet against the rough wood, and they both went over.  John thought he felt someone grab at his shoe as he did so, but he hit the ground still wearing both shoes, so that was all right.  He scrambled back up to his feet and _ran_ , following Sherlock through a maze of alleys and side streets.

They were breathless and giddy by the time they made it back to Baker Street.

“Okay, that was ridiculous,” John gasped.  “That was the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever done.”

“And you chose to return to the UBR.”

“Well, of course...” John began – and then stopped, because the next words were going to be “you’re here.”

“I need to speak with Billy a moment,” Sherlock announced.  He let himself into 221A, leaving John to climb the stairs on his own.  He hadn’t known Sherlock was in London when he made the decision to return to the UBR.  He hadn’t thought of Sherlock at all.  In only two days, his life had reoriented itself around Sherlock Holmes so completely that it was as if things had always been this way.

John thought about this as he put the kettle on and set out two mugs for tea.  Sherlock came clumping up the stairs and headed immediately for the laptop.  He didn’t react when John set a mug of tea (with extra sugar) down next to him.  John drank his own tea, read for awhile and then turned in for the night.

He dreamt that he was flying.


	4. Chapter 4

The next day started bright and early when John woke to sound of loud footsteps on the stairs.  He barely paused to pull on his jeans before heading out into the sitting room, arriving just as Lestrade entered hauling Billy Wiggins by one shoulder.  Through the open door, John could hear both the indignant voices of Billy’s mother and grandaunt and the irreverent comments of his younger siblings.

“Sherlock!” demanded Lestrade, “Would you like to explain why I found this young man loitering in the vicinity of Jabez Wilson’s pawnshop hardly past the break of dawn?”

Sherlock didn’t bother to look up from his microscope.  “Nope.”

John considered Lestrade’s thunderous expression and decided to intervene.  “Detective, why do you think Sherlock was involved?”

“Oh, it _might_ be because I lent him Wilson’s case file less than two days ago.  And it _might_ be because my officers reported a disturbance at the pawnshop last night, which is why I was asked to check out the area at a time I’m more usually having my first cuppa!”

“Right, well, I was just about to put the kettle on myself,” John offered.

Billy squirmed in Lestrade’s grip.  “I never heard of this Wilson bloke!  Ow!  You’re holding too tight!”

“Billy, are you all right?” called Marie.

Mrs Hudson could be heard announcing that she was going up there, hip or no hip.

John went to the door.  “Ladies, it’s under control.  I’ll make sure Billy’s not hurt.”  Then he shut the door and gave Lestrade a meaningful look.  Somewhat reluctantly, Lestrade released Billy.

“Thanks, doc!”  Billy brushed at his shoulder, pointedly _not_ thanking Lestrade for letting go.  “I never heard of this Wilson bloke, and I didn’t know there was a pawnshop ‘round there until the copper said there was.”

Lestrade glared at him.  “Then what were you doing in that neighbourhood at that hour?”

Billy’s gaze dropped.  “Uh, there’s this girl, from school...”

“What’s her name?”

“I dunno.  I hadn’t got ‘round to asking her yet.”

Now Lestrade looked puzzled.  “So I take it you weren’t there to visit her?”

“Uh, no, sir.”

“Then why _were_ you there?”

“She, uh...”  Billy glanced at the closed door, leaned in closer to Lestrade and lowered his voice.  “She don’t always remember to pull the curtains when she gets dressed in the morning.”

John, who’d been busying himself with the kettle and mugs, couldn’t help laughing.  Both Lestrade and Billy shot him nasty looks.

Sherlock finally looked up from his microscope.  “Lestrade, I assume you’ve already checked with Mesdames Hudson and Turner as to Billy’s whereabouts at the time of last night’s ‘disturbance’?”

“They said he was home,” admitted Lestrade.

“I _was_ home,” insisted Billy.

 “What exactly did your officers see?” Sherlock persisted.

“Two people, probably male, one shorter than the other.  When an officer addressed them, they ran down the alley and went over a fence behind the building.”

Sherlock frowned.  “’One shorter than the other.’  Not a very precise description.”

“The officers didn’t get a good look at their faces.  However, an officer managed to get hold of the shorter one’s shoe as he went over the fence.”

Sherlock immediately stood up and headed for his coat.  “I need to see that shoe.”

Lestrade looked sour.  “We don’t have it.”

Sherlock stopped dead.  “I thought you said the officer got hold of it?”

“Well, he laid a hand on it.  He didn’t manage to pull it off.  He said it felt like leather, and it was light-coloured, not black or brown.”

Sherlock sighed.  “Or navy blue presumably.  Oh, thank you, John,” he added as he accepted a mug of tea.

John handed mugs to Lestrade and Billy, then sipped at his own.

“Did your officers at least avoid trampling the foot prints, Lestrade?” Sherlock pursued.

The look on Lestrade’s face was answer enough.

“So you plan on interviewing the entire population of London, beginning with male population, for someone who owns a pair of light-coloured leather shoes and has a taller colleague or acquaintance of some sort.”  Sherlock sipped his tea, then added, “Actually, _John_ would fit that description.  John, show Lestrade your shoes.”

“Never mind,” said Lestrade, setting his mug down.  “I don’t have time for this.  John, thanks for the tea.  And _you_ , young man, no more peeping in at girls’ windows!  If you’re interested in a girl, show her you have some guts by introducing yourself to her face.”

Lestrade let himself out, shutting the door to the flat behind him.  John could hear him exchanging remarks with Mrs Hudson and Marie downstairs but couldn’t make out what they were saying.

The moment Lestrade was gone, Sherlock’s demeanour changed entirely.  “Did you find it?” he demanded of Billy.

“Yes, sir!” Billy replied with a grin.  “Found it straight off, and a good thing I got there before the copper did.  Where it was lying, he would’ve seen it for sure.”

“Unlike his officers, Lestrade’s not entirely useless.  Do you have it?”

“That I don’t.  I tossed it down a sewer grate when I realized the copper was going to nab me.  And I had to leave my overshoes behind a bin, so I need new ones.  Not that I ever wear ‘em, but Aunt Martha will be cheesed if I have to tell her I lost ‘em.”

“Not a problem,” Sherlock replied, extracting his wallet from a trouser pocket.  John observed this item with interest, as he’d never seen it appear when he and Sherlock needed to pay for a cab.

Sherlock handed Billy some bills.  “For replacement overshoes and for your time.”

Billy’s grin grew wider.  “ _Thank_ you, sir!”  He dashed out of the flat and could be heard clattering down the stairs.

“What was that about?” John demanded.  “Did you leave something behind at the crime scene?”

Sherlock smirked.  “No, _you_ did.  I hope you won’t be needing your cane again soon.”

“My _cane_?  Wait a moment, where is...?”

“Down a sewer grate, as you heard.  It would take more competency than New Scotland Yard has ever yet displayed to think of checking the sewer drains in the vicinity of the crime scene.”

“Let alone checking behind bins for overshoes used to mask footprints,” John replied drily.  “Obviously _you_ wouldn’t make simple mistakes like that.” 

John’s sarcasm was lost on Sherlock.  “Neither would Billy.  He shows some promise.  By the way, I have to question your previous statement that your psychosomatic limp reappears when you’re under stress.  Unless you find being chased by police officers relaxing?”

“I might find dumping the dregs of my tea over those perfectly-coiffed curls _relaxing_ ,” John retorted.

“Please.  Domestic violence is so common place.  I prefer to be assaulted for more exciting reasons.”

John paused.  Was Sherlock attempting innuendo or was he referring to events common in the work he claimed to be married to?  Unable to decide, John settled for, “More tea?  And I’m going to make some toast.”

“Still on a case,” replied Sherlock promptly.

“I’ll make us some toast and you can tell me all about the progress you’ve made since last night.”

As it turned out, most of the progress Sherlock had made overnight concerned BritChat entries.

“You mean you went back through it entry by entry?” asked John, a bit incredulous.

“Boring.  I have a search algorithm that hunts for keywords, not all that different from what the censors use.  Religious groups – other than Anglicans, obviously – often use BritChat to communicate, but they need to avoid words like ‘sin’ and ‘salvation’ if they actually want their posts to appear.  I accidentally had a post banned a few years ago during a case concerning several slaughtered sheep of various ages.”

“The Committee doesn’t like sheep?”

“The Committee doesn’t like inquiries about lamb’s blood.” 

“I see.  At least I think I see.”  John took a sip of tea.

“Inquiries about the blood of juvenile sheep are fine,” Sherlock added in a matter-of-fact tone.

John started coughing at his tea went down the wrong way.  When he could breathe again, he asked, “I’ll keep that in mind if I ever start posting.  Did you find anything last night?”

“Small businesses also often use BritChat to advertise.  Jabez Wilson, either Joe or Pauline Antonelli and either Raymond or Angie Stevens all did so.  Unfortunately the Antonelli’s laptop was purchased after the police took their former one as evidence.  There wasn’t enough time for significant wear patterns to accumulate on the keyboard that might have allowed me to distinguish Joe’s larger hands from Pauline’s.”

“Do we know that the Stevens own or owned a laptop?”

“If they didn’t, they would have been able to access BritChat at the lending library next to the shop.  I hypothesized...”

“You mean you guessed.”

“I never guess.  I hypothesized that each of the three victims made sufficiently frequent use of BritChat to notice posts targeted at them.”

John grinned as he reached for another piece of toast.  “Sounds like a guess to me.” 

Sherlock stiffened.  “It sounds to _me_ as if you’ve forgotten the basic structure of the scientific method, _Doctor_.”

“I’m teasing, Sherlock,” John said gently.  “I apologize if that wasn’t clear.  Here, have some toast, I put honey on it.”

Somewhat mollified – although not mollified enough to accept the toast – Sherlock continued.  “Working from this _hypothesis_ , I was able to find four posts.  One was targeted at Joe Antonelli and one at Angie Stevens.  Each of these appeared within a 24-hour period before the victim’s death.  The remaining two posts were targeted at Jabez Wilson.  The later one appeared within a 24-hour period before his death.  The earlier one appeared the previous day.”

John frowned.  “He missed the first one.  The killer had to try again.  Were you able to print the posts?”

“No, but I copied them.”  Sherlock pushed a piece of paper across the table, covered with the spiky handwriting John had seen elsewhere around the flat.

_A Stevens: The fruit of wrongdoing is sour, and the jewels of false power are dull.  Buckets of water will not scrub the filth from grand buildings, but true cleanliness can be had by those who desire it.  07652 243756_

_J Antonelli: Neither bitter ale nor strong liquor will quench your thirst as you remember past days.  Who watches the watchman?  Who will guard his jewels?  Who will reach out their hand to help him?  07214 653810_

_J Wilson (1 of 2): The jewels of past glories are gone, and those of the present day are hidden.  You keep to the shadows where before you walked in the light, yet you are still seen.  Not all who see mean you ill.  07729 834727_

_J Wilson (2 of 2): Are you deaf to my call?  Has the shine of jewels and gold blinded your eyes?  Others still see, and though you live in shadow you are not hidden.  True safety comes from the hands of friends.  07819 542730_

“The mobile numbers are different for each message,” John noted.  “Are they codes?”

Sherlock looked aggrieved.  “I spent some time pursuing that possibility.  But no, they appear to be mobile numbers for disposable phones.  Do you notice anything else?”

“The writer keeps mentioning jewels?”

“Correct.  In all of the posts the writer references both the past and current occupations of the target.  However, although only Wilson was a jeweller, all the posts mention jewels.  What do you know about the Crown Jewels, John?”

“Uh, they’re kept in the Tower of London?”

“They _were_ kept in the Tower of London, in a vault guarded day and night.  The vault was locked with a specially designed combination lock that would fuse shut if the wrong combination was entered.  The combination was handed down through the royal family, and only three people knew it at any time.  The last three known holders were James VII and His Majesty’s two younger brothers, the Dukes of Norfolk and Clarence.”

“The king and the Duke of Norfolk were already dead when Revolutionary troops captured the Duke of Clarence and hauled him to the Tower in chains.  Under threat of torture, he opened the lock to reveal – an empty vault.  An angry and impetuous soldier shot him on the spot.”

“The man’s officers couldn’t have been too happy about that.”

“Indeed not.  He was promptly executed.  Perhaps a little too promptly.  I’ve often wondered if he was a plant.”

“You mean he shot the duke before the duke could reveal information?”

“Precisely.  _Someone_ opened the vault and removed the jewels.  It’s not unlikely that others were involved in the plot.”

“Who pays attention to a maid scrubbing floors?” John said thoughtfully.

“Or to one guard among many.”

“And now someone’s killing the people involved in the plot?  Why, for revenge?”

“Or to ensure their silence.  Two may keep a secret...”

“...if one of them is dead.  But why now, 11 years later?”

“I don’t know.  That’s why I’ve invited the killer to contact us.”

“You what?”

“I posted a message of my own which should attract the killer’s attention.  We’ll need to wait 24 hours for posting and then some additional time before he notices it.”

“And phones you.”

“Ah, no.  There was a chance he’d recognize my phone number.”

“Couldn’t you use a disposable phone, as he did?”

“I would have if I could have gotten hold of one at a quarter of three in the morning.  As it was, I had to use your number instead.”

“Sherlock...”

“It’s newly assigned, no chance of recognition.”

John sighed.  “I suppose this means you want me to leave my phone with you.”

“Why?  You’re at least capable of taking a simple message.  The killer will give you a time and place to meet.  Pass the information on to me.”   

“And Lestrade?”

“What about him?”

“What _about_ him?  He’s a _police_ officer, that’s what...  Sherlock, please tell me you’re not planning to meet the killer alone.”

“I assure you, I won’t be alone.”

John met Sherlock’s gaze and held it.  Sherlock stared back, unflinching.

After a moment, John nodded.  “Right, then.  So we can’t expect the call until early tomorrow morning.  Anything on for today?”

“The library of the British Museum.  Also some shopping.”

“Good.  We’re almost out of milk.”

Sherlock looked blank.  “Milk?”

“White liquid?  You put it in tea?”

“No, I don’t .  I take my tea black with sugar.”

“Well, _I_ put it in tea.”

“Then why would _I_ buy it?”

It was obviously a losing battle.  “Never mind,” John sighed.  “I’ll pick some milk up myself.”

“Get some Hobnobs as well.”

John stared.

Sherlock, oblivious, continued.  “But only if they have the chocolate ones.”

It was at this point that John decided that a day spent away from Sherlock would be an excellent idea.  After finishing his tea and toast, he headed over to the Cromwell to add his new phone number to his job application.  The cheerful female clerk who assisted him commented that there’d been “a lot of activity” concerning the application and then gave him a wink.

Cheered, John stopped by to say hello to Mike, who had enough time free to take John around for introductions to other staff members he’d be working with.  Everyone was curious to learn more about John’s background, resulting in a sort of rolling group conversation that went on so long that John ended up going to lunch with his future colleagues.

After lunch he stopped at a library and made use of their directory collection in an attempt to locate Harry.  John knew that Harry’s husband’s last name was Taylor.  The problem was that he didn’t remember the old lech’s first name, didn’t know if Harry would have a listing in her own name, didn’t know if Harry had managed to free herself from the marriage and didn’t know if she would have resumed using the name Watson.  He didn’t even know if she was still in London.  There were a daunting number of listings for Harriet, Harry and H Taylor or Watson in the London street address and mobile phone directories alone, never mind the country as a whole.  When a would-be helpful librarian warned John that _neither_ the address nor the phone directories were likely to be up to date, John became completely disheartened.

He left the library and decided to revive himself by walking the long way back to Baker Street.  The ability to walk without pain was a treasure all on its own, not even counting the opportunity to explore and relearn the city.  He picked up milk and a few other things, including a nice piece of fish.  He was glad he hadn’t opted for liver when he arrived at 221B to find Sherlock absorbed in an experiment involving the diseased livers Molly had sent.  After some discussion, John was able to prevail on Sherlock to allow a minimal amount of space in the kitchen for John to prepare supper.

With Sherlock sitting right there, John’s thoughts turned back to their case.  “Sherlock, the cause of death...  I’m assuming you’re thinking something airborne?  Because of the particulates in the nasal passages?”

“That plus the fact that Angie Stevens’ corpse was found in a room that could be sealed to be almost airtight.  The one window had been painted shut, and the door shut so tightly that it took Lestrade a considerable amount of effort to open it again.”

“But you don’t yet know what was used.”

“On the contrary, the facial expressions of the victims and the particulates themselves strongly suggest _Radix pedis diabolic_ , first described in print by Dr Leon Sterndale in 1910.”

“Devil’s foot root,” said John, remembering his medical Latin.  “So... the victims follow the killer into a room, the killer seals the room shut and lights up a piece of root and the victims just sit there?  Why do they follow the killer in the first place?”

“You said it yourself, John.  The killer is someone they think they can trust.  All of the messages posted on BritChat used pseudo-religious language to remind the victims of a past transgression and suggest that the person posting the messages could offer assistance.”

“You think it’s a clergyman or someone pretending to be a clergyman.”

“Most likely pretending to be an Anglican priest.  Like many other religious sects, the Anglican Church used incense to create a sense of sacred space.”

“All right, so he – he?”

“Most likely.”

“He’s got the root in some sort of censer.  Why isn’t he affected by it?”

“Internal nose plugs made of soft silicone.  They’re almost invisible to the outside observer unless you know what you’re looking for.  They’re not easy to obtain, but neither is _Radix pedis diabolic_.”

John whistled softly.  “Someone’s gone to a great deal of trouble to kill these people.”

Sherlock shrugged.  “We already knew that, John.  Do keep up.”

“But look, having gone to all this trouble to get away with the murders, why would the killer contact you and give himself away?”

“Because he’s not only gone to a lot of trouble, he’s been _clever_ about it.  I love the clever ones.  They’re always so desperate to get caught.”

“I don’t follow.  Why?”

“Appreciation!  Applause!”  Grinning, Sherlock emphasized his words with sweeps of his long arms.  One hand still held a scalpel with bits of liver on it.  “At long last the spotlight.  That’s the frailty of genius, John: it needs an audience.”

“Yeah,” said John thoughtfully.  “I can see that.”

After supper, John washed up and read medical journals for awhile.  He’d need to do something about getting himself some lighter fare.  Or a telly – did the UBR have television?  It had just been getting going in the United Kingdom at the time John left.

When John got up from his chair to get ready for bed, a problem arose.  Sherlock apparently expected him to stay up all night in case the killer called in the wee hours.

“Look, Sherlock, take my phone, stay up and wait for the killer to call, do whatever you like.  _I’m_ going to bed.”

“Fine,” said Sherlock mulishly.  “If the killer wants to meet immediately, I’ll go alone.”

“No, you’ll call Lestrade with the information as you promised.”

“Lestrade will be asleep.”

“ _Someone_ at New Scotland Yard will be awake.”

“Some _idiot_ at New Scotland Yard will answer the phone, refuse to listen to me and either hang up or at most grudgingly consent to leave a note on Lestrade’s desk.  Meanwhile the opportunity will be lost!”

“Sherlock, you can’t go running off...”

“If you’re asleep, who’s going to stop me?”

“Oh, I don’t know, your own common sense?  No, wait – you apparently don’t have any!”

Sherlock sat there glaring at John like a petulant otter.

John resigned himself to the inevitable.  “All right.  I will stay up all night with you.  I will take the phone message for you.  But Sherlock?  If you attempt to leave this flat without first phoning the information in to New Scotland Yard, I will knock you down and _sit_ on you.”

Pressured to provide entertainment, Sherlock eventually extracted a Cluedo set from beneath the books and papers.  He refused, however, to follow any of the rules, claiming that they were all ridiculous.  This moved John to begin creating ever-more-outrageous rules of his own, just to see if Sherlock could tell the difference between the real rules and John’s additions.

The result was a surprising amount of fun, especially when Sherlock attempted to retaliate.  Sherlock’s rules were all so complicated that he ended up drawing flowcharts to explain them to John – and even then they didn’t make sense.  When Sherlock’s patience ran out, he crumpled the latest flowchart up into a ball and threw it at John.  John had plenty of ammunition to hand, so he fired back.  It rapidly became apparent that he had superior aim.

Billy and Archie came downstairs to find out what all the noise was about and were immediately drafted as cannon fodder.  The battle continued until Marie came upstairs, chased Billy and Archie back to bed and threatened to tell Mrs Hudson never to bake anything for Sherlock ever again.

“I’m surprised Mrs H didn’t come up here herself,” John remarked in the silence the reigned after Marie’s departure.

“Herbal soothers,” explained Sherlock briefly.

“Does the UBR have television?” asked John.

This innocuous question started Sherlock off on a rant against the vacuity of the available programming, complete with detailed descriptions of the programs Sherlock found most offensive.

“You know an awful lot about these programs for someone who doesn’t watch them and who doesn’t even own a set.”

John’s remark led to the revelation that Sherlock had in fact, at one time, owned a working TV set.  He’d taken it apart because he needed to “borrow” some of the components for an experiment.  When put back together, the set had refused to work.

“The set’s fault entirely, I’m sure,” John said gravely.  “More tea?  Another Hobnob?”

The set now resided in Billy and Archie’s room, where the boys lived in hope that they’d be able to get it working someday and thus no longer have to share a set with the female members of the household.

“Although to be honest, I’m not sure that Toby’s native tastes are all that much different from her brothers’,” observed Sherlock.  “She simply has more motivation to prove she’s ready for adulthood by emulating her mother and grandaunt.”

By the time John’s phone rang at 5:27 AM, both he and Sherlock had wound down considerably, but Sherlock sat bolt upright the moment the phone began to trill.

John picked up the phone.  “Hello?”

“Hello,” replied a cultured male voice.  “The Prospect of Whitby, 57 Wapping Wall, half past eight.”

“Right,” said John, scribbling frantically.  “Er, AM or PM?”

The voice chuckled.  “In 15 hours.  Don’t be late.”  The caller hung up.

John and Sherlock stared at each other.  Finally John said, forcing his voice to calmness, “Well, that was certainly worth staying up all night for.”

Sherlock shrugged.  “If you think so.  You’d might as well go to bed now.”

“Oh, no, you don’t.  I’m not going anywhere until I hear you phone New Scotland Yard.”

With a put-upon sigh, Sherlock extracted his phone and dialled.  As he’d predicted, Lestrade was not yet in, but the sergeant on duty took down the time and place of the rendezvous, promising to pass the information on to Lestrade.

This detail attended to, John went to bed and slept until just past noon.  He would have slept longer except that Sherlock decided to express his frustrated impatience by torturing his violin.  John retaliated by dragging Sherlock out to go book shopping.  This worked out unexpectedly well.  Sherlock disdained any store featuring flashy displays of the latest best sellers.  Instead he took John on a tour of small used bookshops, often tucked away down alleys and in basements.  The result was a treasure trove for John, who hadn’t had access to anything published in the UBR during the past 11 years.  Even Sherlock found a volume that interested him in the third shop they visited.  Better yet, when Sherlock introduced John as his husband, the shop owners gave John discounts or waved away his money altogether.

By the time they returned home, John’s arms were aching from his load of books.  Sherlock had refused to carry any in his arms, although he did jam a few smaller volumes into the pockets of his coat.

They found Mrs Hudson waiting for them instead the front door.  She’d heard three different versions of the events of the night before – one each from Marie, Billy and Archie – and was not amused.

“You two are supposedly grown men and what you get up to is your own business, but I’ll thank you not to drag Billy and Archie into it!”

Sherlock managed to slip past her up the stairs, leaving John and his books to mollify their landlady.  It wasn’t a bad strategy.  Once Mrs Hudson had blown off her initial head of steam and realized that John was listening to her patiently while holding nearly two stone of books, she quickly became more sympathetic – at least towards John.

By the time John had escaped upstairs, found homes for his new books and browsed through several trying to decide which to read first, the afternoon was well past.  Something light for supper, he thought, so he made himself an omelet.  For once he could understand Sherlock’s refusal to eat anything, but Sherlock was a civilian through and through.  John had been a soldier and had learned to eat and sleep when he could.

John was just finishing the washing up when Sherlock came into the room holding some sort of package.  Something heavy for its size by the way he held it.

“John,” said Sherlock gravely, “I want you to have this.”

“This” was a Browning HP L9A1 almost identical to the one that John had used in Afghanistan.  There’d been talk of replacing them with SIGs, but then the Revolution had come.  John had still had his Browning at the end of the war when he was shipped to Canada.  He’d turned it in, of course.  The shape and weight of the gun he held now were familiar, almost comforting.  Out of habit, he checked to see whether or not it was loaded – yes – and the safety was on – also yes.

Still with the safety on, he took aim at the skull on the mantelpiece, falling automatically into the proper stance.

Sherlock frowned.  “You’ve handled a gun more recently than I expected, probably the same make and model...  Oh!  Canadian Forces Reserve.”

His frown morphed into a pleased smile, and John found himself smiling back.  No, wait.  This wasn’t something to smile about.

“Sherlock, is this gun legal?”

Sherlock handed him a piece of paper.  “You have a certificate to carry it.”

John squinted at the paper.  “Is this forged?”

“Of course, but the forgery’s quite high quality.  The dealer guarantees them.”

Sherlock had a bought John a black market gun and a forged certificate.  Oh, hell, of course he had.  He’d probably gotten a special price because he’d done the dealer a _favour_ , gotten the bloke off a murder charge or something.

“You don’t have to use it,” added Sherlock.  “But I’d feel better if you had it.”

“That’s bollocks,” John replied.  “Anyone who’s not willing to use a gun shouldn’t be carrying it in the first place.”  And he tucked the gun into the back of his jeans.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The [Prospect of Whitby](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Prospect_of_Whitby) is a real pub. I was attracted by its piratical associations.
> 
> [Almost-invisible internal noseplugs](http://www.stellathesiren.com/index.php/internal-noseplugs-a-mermaids-solution/) are also a real thing.


	5. Chapter 5

They had no trouble finding a driver willing to take them out to Wapping.  Sherlock had the driver let them out a few doors down from 57 Wapping Wall. 

“We need to enter separately.  I’ll go first.  Wait three minutes before following.  Order some common kind of beer or ale and then act as if you're waiting for someone.  Don’t stand or sit too close to where I am.”

“You mean where you and the killer are.”

“Precisely.”

John looked Sherlock in the eyes.  “You didn’t call New Scotland Yard, did you?  You dialed a number that you knew would be answered with a recorded message and faked a conversation.  One of my mates in Canada told me about his kids doing that.”

“If I’d notified the police, they would send a crowd of soi-disant ‘undercover’ officers who’d look exactly like police officers pretending to be pub customers.  They’d spook the killer, who’d be all that much harder to establish contact with a second time.”

“Really, Sherlock?  Because Lestrade didn’t seem that incompetent.”

Sherlock sighed.  “Fine.  The police don’t consider my hypotheses to be ‘real evidence.’  Even Lestrade wouldn’t be able to justify sending anyone.”

“It’s a shame how many police officers don’t understand the scientific method,” John said straight-faced.  “Three minutes, eh?”

Sherlock looked briefly startled, almost as if...  Had he not expected John to see this through?  Then the surprise was gone.  “Maybe two minutes, 45 seconds.”  And he was gone too, strolling off towards the pub, his gloved hands tucked into his pockets.

John waited two minutes and 30 seconds before following.

The Prospect of Whitby was pleasantly busy rather than over-crowded.  John ordered a pint of the beer with the most wear on the tap handle, paid for it and planted himself at the bar, keeping one eye on the door and the other eye on Sherlock.  Sherlock was further down the bar, talking with a man who looked a bit like a younger Christopher Lee.  He was about Sherlock’s height but with a heavier build, dressed in a dark trousers and a coat whose high collar recalled a cassock.

This was their killer.

To look at him and Sherlock, though, anyone would have thought they were friends having a pleasant conversation.  Right up until the moment that the stranger put his arm around Sherlock’s waist and Sherlock stiffened.  Under other circumstances John might have thought that the stranger had made an unwanted pass.  Under these circumstances...

The stranger bent his head to whisper something in Sherlock’s ear.  Then the two of them left the pub, the stranger’s arm still around Sherlock’s waist, two lovers, perhaps planning to spend the night together.

John slammed down his pint and followed.

The pair were already out of sight by the time he exited the pub, so they couldn’t have gone far before turning off the street.  A muffled noise to John’s left led him to the mouth of a narrow alley.  Further down, two tall dark shapes struggled together.  Light from a window flashed off something metal.  A knife blade, John realized.  The killer had been holding a knife to Sherlock’s side as they left the pub.  If John charged into the fray, he’d almost certainly get Sherlock stabbed.

John had drawn his gun and taken the safety off the moment he was out of the pub.  The distance was hardly ten metres, but in the poor light and with a moving target, he had almost no way of ensuring that he’d shoot the killer instead of Sherlock.  Still, he braced for a shot, hoping to get an opening. 

Sherlock’s pale face suddenly appeared in the patch of light from the window.

I’m here, Sherlock, thought John.  _See me._   See me against the mouth of the alley.

As if he’d heard, Sherlock glanced ever so slightly in John’s direction, nodded once – and dropped through his opponent’s grasp.  John saw the killer raise his arm, the knife in his hand, probably intending to stab Sherlock in the back of the neck.

John aimed for a head shot and pulled the trigger.

The shot was deafening in the enclosed space.

Hell, John thought.  The pub!  Everyone would be out here.

“John,” Sherlock hissed.  “This way!”

John didn’t hesitate.  They ran down the alley, which led to a flight of stairs, with Sherlock giving instructions all the way.  “Down the stairs, turn left, 80 metres on, knock the sand off your shoes and go back up.  Get home as quick as you can.”

“What about you?”

“Go!”

John went.  He was leaving footprints on the sand.  Was the tide coming in or going out?  Had he left footprints in the alley?  Sherlock would know.  Sherlock would take care of it.  All John had to do was to follow orders.

It was very much like being in the army again.

***

John found himself at loose ends once he arrived back at Baker Street.  He’d regained his breath on the ride home.  Once he’d divested himself of his jacket and tucked the gun away underneath the mattress in the bedroom, he wasn’t sure what to do next.  Wait for word from Sherlock, presumably.

His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of the front door opening and then voices, Mrs Hudson’s and...  Damn, Lestrade’s!

John grabbed one of his newly purchased books and answered the flat door book in hand, a finger poked in among the pages as if to mark his place.

“Sherlock home?” asked Lestrade pleasantly.

“No, he went out somewhere.  I’ll tell him you came by.”

“What about you, John?  What have you been doing this evening?”

“He’s been ordering me around as if I were his housekeeper, that’s what he’s been doing!”  Both men turned to look as Mrs Hudson made her way up the stairs with a tea pot, cup and saucer on a tray.  “First he wants tea, then biscuits.  Now it’s more tea!”

She pushed past Lestrade into the flat and set the tray down.  “Don’t expect me to be doing this for you again, John Watson.  I’m not your housekeeper!”

“He’s been here all evening, Mrs Hudson?” asked Lestrade.

“Him and enough tea to float the Navy, that’s what’s been here,” she retorted.  “You bring that tray and pot back downstairs yourself, young man.  My hip’s had more than enough of these stairs for one evening!”  With that, she made her way out again.

“Leg acting up?” Lestrade asked sympathetically.  “I noticed you had a cane the other day.”

“It comes and goes.  Psychosomatic, triggered by stress.”

“Yeah, Sherlock can have that effect.  Try to take it easy on the old lady though.  Tell Sherlock I was by.”  Lestrade shut the flat door behind him as he left.  John heard him going down the stairs and out the front door.

Finding himself with a book in his hand and full pot of hot tea, John settled in to wait for Sherlock.

Sherlock arrived barely an hour later.  He had bits of stuff in his hair and on the shoulders of his coat that John preferred not to think about but he was otherwise unharmed, even cheerful.

“Did Lestrade give you much trouble?”

“He told you he’d been here?”

“No, he took my statement at the scene but then had Donovan detain me while he vanished off somewhere.  This was his most likely destination.”

“Yeah, he came by.  Good thing you had a chance to warn Mrs Hudson.”

“I didn’t.”

“Then how...”

“Mrs Hudson has lived a long and varied life.”

John waited a moment, but Sherlock didn’t offer further details.

“Right.  So, you gave a statement?”  When Sherlock raised an eyebrow, John explained, “We should keep our stories straight.”

“True.  I met Phelps at the pub...”

“Phelps?”

“Frederick Phelps.  I met him at the pub.  Keep up, John!  He had a knife...”

“I saw that,” John interjected grimly.

“...which he held to my side.  He said we were leaving the pub.”

“Hell, Sherlock, why didn’t you break away from him and yell while you were still in the pub?”

“Think, John.  What motive did he have for the killings?  None.  Someone hired him.  I needed to keep him talking to find out whom.”

“He was holding a knife to you and the first thing you thought of was _keeping him talking_?”

“Are you going to let me finish?”

“ _Fine._ ”

“Phelps dragged me into the alley.  I was fighting him for the knife when a shot was fired.  I was shoved aside.  I saw a man’s silhouette at the top of the stairs.  I was, of course, in shock.”

“Nasty stuff, shock,” John agreed.  It occurred to him that more tea would be helpful.

“It’s unfortunate that by the time the police arrived, several of the customers in the pub had been down the alley.  Some had even gone down the stairs and out onto the beach, no doubt fancying themselves amateur detectives.”

“Amateurs can be such a nuisance,” said John as he put the kettle on.

“Amateur medics especially.  One fellow seemed to think that mouth-to-mouth resuscitation was an appropriate treatment for shock.”

John looked up from the mugs and teabags sharply.  “What?”    

“He was rather drunk.  His friends dissuaded him.”

“Good,” muttered John.

“When the police arrived, the first thing they had to do was to get people off the beach, as the tide was coming in.”

John froze.  “He counted on that, this Phelps fellow.  That’s why he picked the time and place he did.  He was going to use the tide...”

“To hide my corpse, yes.  But _someone_ fired that shot and now Phelps is the corpse, not I.”

John took a breath.  “Funny how that worked out.”

“The police are checking their cold cases to see if Phelps was involved in any previous murders.”

“They think he was shot  in revenge?”

“That’s one possibility.  It’s also possible his employer wanted to make sure he didn’t talk.  Or that I was the gunman’s real target.  My work has made me some enemies.”

“That...” didn’t bear thinking about.  “Do you want some tea?” John asked instead.

“I want a shower first.  My hair...”  Sherlock divested himself of his coat and scarf.  He frowned as he examined them.  “These will need to go to the dry-cleaners.”

“Tomorrow,” John replied firmly.  “Go get your shower.”

After his shower, Sherlock emerged from the bedroom in pyjamas and a dressing gown.  He made it halfway through a mug of tea before he ran out of steam and John caught him yawning.

“You need some sleep, Sherlock, and I don’t mean on the sofa.  Take the bed.  I’ll fit better on the sofa than you will anyway.”

“I’m younger and more flexible.”

Right, trust Sherlock to be stubborn even while falling asleep sitting up.  “I’m 34, Sherlock, not 64.”

“You’re 34 with a shoulder injury,” Sherlock replied petulantly.

“You know what?  I’m not going to argue with you.  I’m just going to wait until you fall asleep sitting there and then _carry_ you to bed.”

Sherlock blinked and looked suddenly... attentive? 

“Don’t think I can’t do it, shoulder injury and all,” continued John.

“That’s not what I was thinking,” said Sherlock primly.  Then he yawned again.

John took pity on him.  “Look, it’s a big bed.  There’s plenty of room for both of us.  I’ve certainly shared tighter quarters before.”

Sherlock opened his mouth to reply and instead yawned a third time.  John stood up, collected their mugs and put them in the sink.  Then he offered both hands to Sherlock.  “Come on, up you get.”

Sherlock allowed John to pull him to his feet and then headed off to the bedroom, weaving ever so slightly but graceful despite his fatigue.  John turned out the lights and followed, pausing in the loo to brush his teeth.  By the time he entered the bedroom, Sherlock was already under the covers, lying along the edge of the bed on his left side so that his back would be to John.  His dressing gown lay flung out over the foot of the bed.

John stripped to his T-shirt and boxers, folding his jeans and jumper neatly before placing them on the dresser.  Then he turned out the light and climbed in on the other side of the bed.

He felt as if he ought to say something.  “Good night, Sherlock.”

“Yes, it was,” came the mumbled reply.

Moments later Sherlock, sleep-deprived for days, began to emit soft snores, the curse of the weak-chinned.  The noise itself wouldn’t have bothered John – he’d always found it rather comforting to know that his bunkmates were still breathing – but he’d already spent half the day sleeping and was still wired from the events of the evening.  Sleep was elusive.

Instead, he contemplated the man lying next to him.  Sherlock had thrust an illegally-obtained gun into John’s hands.  Sherlock, in lieu of informing Lestrade about his plans, had led John into a situation in which John had killed a man and then lied to Lestrade about it.

This was not the life John had expected when he returned to the UBR.

And yet.

And yet.

On the strength of four days’ acquaintance and a 14-year-old memory, Sherlock had trusted that John was both willing and able to protect him.  And in response to that trust, John had acted without hesitation.  Even now, with the adrenaline in his veins beginning to wear off, John had no qualms about killing Phelps.  He felt worse about lying to Lestrade, not because Lestrade was the police but because he rather liked the man.

The truth was that the last time he’d felt so alive was when he’d made a leap for the fence behind Wilson’s, caught Sherlock’s hand and gone running down the alleys and streets.  The last time before that... was a long time ago.

It was entirely possible that, despite Umbrella Man’s warnings, the life John had found was a far better fit than the life he’d expected. 

Sherlock snuffled into his pillow, and John stopped himself from reaching to stroke the dark curls.  The boy John had met 14 years ago had grown into a man, and the man, however gorgeous and brilliant, was married to his work.

Married to his work, thought John, arranging himself for sleep more comfortably, but sleeping in my bed.

He fell asleep before it occurred to him that it was he who was sleeping in Sherlock’s bed, by Sherlock’s invitation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was using Google Street View to scope out the area around the Prospect of Whitby and discovered the Pelican Stairs. Check out the photo at [Old Stairs of the Thames at Wapping and Shadwell](http://thelostbyway.com/2014/03/old-stairs-of-the-thames-at-wapping-and-shadwell.html).


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: This chapter contains discussion about a past incident in which a 14-year-old and a 20-year-old were placed in a potentially sexual situation. Neither of them wanted to be there, and no sex _between them_ actually occurred. If you want to skip this chapter, all you need to know going forward is that it starts with John waking up in bed with Sherlock and ends with Sherlock asking what John was thinking about as he dealt with the afore-mentioned situation.

The beach John was lying on was so very comfortable, but the tide was coming in.  He had to get up.  But he couldn’t get up because he’d knocked someone down and was sitting on them.  He could feel them holding him...  Down?

Wait.

That didn’t make sense.

John opened his eyes.  There were, in fact, two things holding him down.  He still lay mostly at one side of the bed.  Sherlock, on the other hand, had invaded the centre during the night and was now sprawled out over a surprisingly large area, with one arm and one leg (each rather long) flung out over John.

Beyond the drawn curtains, it was morning outside.

John gave an experimental wriggle towards the edge of the bed.  No luck.  He wriggled a bit harder.  Sherlock grunted, and John looked at him.  Sherlock’s open eyes were silver in the dim light.  His face was soft with sleep.

For a moment, neither spoke.

“This is quite an improvement over the last time I woke up in bed with you,” rumbled Sherlock.  He didn’t move.  In fact, he seemed quite comfortable where he was.

John released a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding.  “The morning after our wedding.”

“Of course, that morning,” Sherlock replied archly.  “If other possibilities come to mind, then you’re confusing me with someone else.” 

John grinned.  “That would be hard to do.  You’re rather unique.  But...  ‘Quite an improvement’ – come on, was it really all that bad?”

“My anus was still stinging from the cayenne paste you gave me to apply, and the dried semen all over my arse _itched_.”  Sherlock was clearly trying to maintain a solemn face, but his eyes danced and the corners of his mouth twitched.

He really had a lovely mouth.

“You do realize that all that was necessary for the ruse to succeed?”

“Certainly.  The doctor who examined me afterwards didn’t know whether to be horrified or impressed.  Of course, this was partly due to my own acting skills.”

“Your _over_ -acting skills, you mean.  When I suggested that it would help if you could limp a bit and flinch when you sat down...”

“A suggestion I followed.”

“Hell, Sherlock, the way you were staggering about, anyone would have thought that you’d suffered permanent damage!  Your _mother_ certainly thought so.”

“Mummy did tend to be a bit over-protective.”

“’Mummy’ looked as if she were going to leap over the breakfast table and stab me with a butter knife.  Either that or poison my tea.”

“Which is why I kept stealing your cup.”

John blinked.  “I thought you were just being a brat.  Would she really...”

“Probably not, although she could have.  She did a lot of work with herbs, tinctures, poultices.  I got my start by working with her.  But I kept stealing your cup and bits of food from your plate and you were annoyed but not actually angry with me.   She saw that.  She also saw that I was doing it on purpose, so that she would see it.”

“You were telling her that you were all right.”

“No, I was telling her that _you_ were all right and I didn’t want you killed.”

Where had the tightness in John’s throat come from?

“At least not by her,” Sherlock continued.  “You were, after all, heading off to war.  None of us knew if you’d return.”  A pause.  “What were you thinking of?”

“When I signed up?  Escaping my uncle, mostly.”

Sherlock frowned and sat up, drawing in his errant limbs.  John found he missed their weight. 

“No, when...”  Sherlock closed one hand into a circle and moved it up rapidly up and down.

John sat up too, fast.  “Oi!  You were supposed to keep your eyes closed!”

“If you’d wanted me to keep my eyes closed, you should have kept yours open.  What were you thinking of?  It made you...”

“Leave itchy dried semen all over your arse.  _Sorry_.”  John could feel his face flaming.  “I never thought when I came up with the plan that you’d be so bloody _young_.  I only knew that the, the _situation_ wasn’t your idea anymore than it was mine.  I was trying to buy us some time, maybe find a way out, and that meant convincing the doctor we’d done... what was expected.” 

“Whatever you were thinking of made you smile,” said Sherlock quietly.  “You started to, ah, masturbate and you looked as if it were hard for you and then your face changed and you smiled and it got easier.”

And the memory had stayed with Sherlock for 14 years.  A boy on the verge of puberty had seen, probably for the first time, a man experiencing sexual pleasure – and remembered.  John no longer felt embarrassed.  He felt... humbled.  Less important than the memory itself, for all that Sherlock now looked to him to explain it.


	7. Chapter 7

John took a deep breath and began.  “When I was thirteen, my father was given tickets to a performance by the Royal Ballet, a thank-you gift from a customer.  We all went – Da, Mum, Harry and I.  I’d never been before and to be honest, didn’t expect much from it.  I’d begun to notice girls, though, so I figured there’d at least be pretty ballerinas to look at.”

“A safe assumption.”

“So I was sitting there, watching a group of ballerinas dance...”

“Prettily, no doubt.”

“But when their dance ended and they’d cleared off the stage, the music sort of... held its breath.  And then it sort of charged forward and just as it did, this male dancer...”

“ _Danseur._ ”

“...leapt onto the stage and just took it over.  After that, it was his stage, no matter who else was on it.  I’d never seen a man move like that before.  Those tights...  I could see the muscles flex in his legs, his, well, arse.  I guess I was staring at his arse.”

“You _guess_.”

“I was staring at his arse.  I was staring at his front, too.  And beginning to, er, get excited.  The ballerinas were nice to look at, but this man...  He lifted the... lead ballerina?”

“Prima ballerina.”

“I wanted him to pick _me_ up like that.  I was worried I’d – lose it.  With my family sitting there.  I thought maybe I should excuse myself and find the loo, but I couldn’t leave, I couldn’t stop watching.  And then the ballet ended, but the dancers came out to take bows.  He came out, he kept _bending over_ , bowing, and there was this moment...  I thought he looked at me.  I thought he saw me, looking at him.  I was frozen until he left the stage.  And then I ran like hell for the loo.  Harry ragged me about it the whole way home, said I must have been desperate.”

“But didn’t guess in what way.”

“Thank god, no.  Anyway, ever since then, whenever I, ah, need inspiration, that’s who I think of.”

“That wasn’t the only time you’ve been attracted to a man.”

“No.  I’m attracted to women more often than men, but with men the attraction is somehow... deeper?  That’s not quite it.  More visceral, maybe.”

“You almost married a woman, in Canada.”

“That was deeper in a different way, more about a sort of... exclusive emotional commitment.  If I ever met a man for whom I felt the same level of emotional commitment _and_ this visceral sort of physical attraction, I think I’d self-combust on the spot.”

Sherlock watched him steadily.  John was suddenly aware of how close they were sitting, together in bed in a darkened room.  And he was aware of how open he’d left himself.  He’d started out to tell about being thirteen and watching the dancer.  It was a good, funny story if a bit embarrassing.  Instead, somehow...  What he’d just told Sherlock, he’d never told, never thought to tell anyone.  And yet, he hadn’t thought twice before telling Sherlock.

“When I was a child,” Sherlock began, “I wanted to be a dancer.”

John nodded, trying to steady his breathing.

“My parents approved of this no more than of my previous ambition.”

“Which was?”

Sherlock smirked.  “To be a pirate.”

Startled, John burst out laughing.

“Learning to dance for social purposes was encouraged – required, actually – but to perform on stage...  It’s perhaps just as well that my interests changed direction yet again.  I think, however, I can still do a pirouette.”

Throwing his covers to one side – “Oi, Sherlock, you almost hit me in the face!” – Sherlock rose from the bed, tall and graceful in his pyjamas as he took a position in the middle of the floor.  He swung both of his arms to the left, took a sharp breath, rose onto his left foot and did a perfect full-circle pirouette.

“Bravo!” applauded John.

Sherlock actually grinned at him and tried it again, only to stumble when someone pounded on the flat door.

“Inspectorate of Housing!  Open up!” a male voice bellowed.

Sherlock snatched up his dressing gown and flew out the bedroom door.  John paused only to pull his jeans on over his boxers, tuck his gun into the waistband and pull his shirt over the gun.  Then he followed.  He was just in time to find Sherlock confronting a trio of strange men, with an anxious Mrs Hudson behind them.

“We have a report of familial inflation,” proclaimed one of the men, a gangly fellow who was apparently trying to camouflage his weasel-like face with a bushy moustache.  Two burlier men pushed past John and Sherlock and began to poke at things around the flat.

“Familial inflation?  What’s that mean?” demanded John.

Weasel sneered.  “We were told there’s a single person falsely claiming to be married in order to keep this flat all to themselves.  Unfair _and_ illegal, of course.  What’s your name?”

“John Hamish Watson,” John snapped.

Weasel started checking the file he carried.

“ _Dr_ John Hamish Watson,” Sherlock added.  “My husband.”  He stepped over to John’s left side and put his arm around John’s waist.  John leaned in a bit for verisimilitude.

Weasel looked up from the file.  “And you would be?”

“William Sherlock Scott Holmes.”  Weasel resumed checking.  “My _husband_ and I were having a lie-in when you interrupted.  If your pet thugs would care to stop disarranging my personal papers and have a look at our bed, they’ll find that the sheets are still warm and the pillows bear strands of both our hair.”

“Watch who yer calling a thug, boyo,” spat one of the burly men.  “And what’s all this stuff in the kitchen?  Looks like a drug lab.”

“Whose skull is that on the mantelpiece?”  That was the other thug.

Sherlock looked so exasperated that John jumped in before he could say something scathing and incriminating.  “Souvenir of an amateur production of Hamlet.  If you’re not going to go look at the bedroom right away, my husband would like to get dressed.”

This, of course, immediately sent all three inspectors heading into the bedroom – and away from the refrigerator with the livers in it.

Sherlock gave John an approving nod and reassured their landlady.  “We’re all right, Mrs Hudson.  It’s just Mycroft sticking his fat nose in where it doesn’t belong again.”

“I’d like to tell him where to stick it!  I’ve got some scones for you, dear, once these louts are gone.  I’m not chancing them putting their greasy paws on my baking, it’s too good for them.”  She went back down the stairs.

Weasel exited the bedroom, trailed by his two colleagues.  They all looked disgruntled.

“Everything seems to be in order,” Weasel allowed grudgingly.  “You’re clear – at least as far as housing is concerned.”  He gave the skull a meaningful look before all three of them left.

“What the...” John started off.

Sherlock frowned and shook his head as, “I still think they’re running a drug lab,” floated back up the stairs.  Finally John heard the front door slam shut.

“My brother approves of you,” Sherlock said drily.

“Your brother’s never met me,” John replied, puzzled.  “He wasn’t at the wedding.”

“And yet he’s met you all the same.  Made a point of it, in fact.  Beware, John.”

“I thought you said he approved of me?”

“At the time of the Revolution, Mycroft...”

“Your brother’s name is Mycroft,” John said bemusedly.  “Your parents named their sons Mycroft and Sherlock.”

“You’ve met my parents.  Are you surprised?  Now _pay attention_.  Mycroft occupied a minor government position as a sort of apprentice to our uncle, Rudolph Vernet. Uncle Rudy occupied a rather more important position.  They were both captured when Revolutionary troops overran the government offices.  Rudy was ordered to divulge sensitive information under threat of torture.  When he refused, Mycroft stepped forward, denounced both Rudy and the royal family and then provided the information himself.  When the first fledging revolutionary government formed, he managed to be part of it.  He’s survived both competition and coups because he’s cold-blooded, heartless and supremely intelligent.  He now sits on the Committee.”

“Umbrella Man!”

“ _What?_ ”

“Umbrella Man.  The pompous twit who kidnapped me and offered me money to spy on you.  That was your brother.”

Sherlock stared and then chuckled.  “John, you continue to surprise me.  Umbrella Man, indeed.  But he _is_ dangerous.  You could try asking Uncle Rudy.”

“Oh, is he still alive?”

“No.  Once Mycroft provided the information, the troops had no more use for Rudy.  They shot him on the spot.  You could _try_ asking.”

“But I won’t get an answer.  I see.”  When John had woken up this morning, he’d been in bed with Sherlock.  Now they were on different territory altogether.  He felt tea was called for and went to put the kettle on.

“Tell me this, Sherlock.  How have you avoided housing inspections before now?”

Sherlock smiled slightly.  It didn’t reach his eyes.  “Very good, John.  I haven’t.  They simply didn’t occur.  This was, of course, my brother’s doing.”

“So you don’t mind accepting favours from him.”

The smile vanished.  “Don’t be an idiot,” Sherlock snapped.  “I can’t escape him – or his ‘favours.’  That doesn’t mean I trust him.  And the fact that he approves of you as my... companion doesn’t mean _you_ should trust him.”

“Good.”  John’s own smile was brief.  “Because I don’t.  If I make a full breakfast, will you eat it?”

“I might.  Are you going to keep your gun with you while you cook?”

“Depends.  If I do, will that increase the chances of you actually eating something?”

Sherlock’s smile returned, more genuine this time.

In the end, they decided that John’s gun could be returned to its hiding place in the bedroom.  Sherlock accounted for a truly impressive amount of eggs, bacon, tomatoes, mushrooms and toast before abandoning the breakfast table for the sofa and a pile of books and scribbled notes.

John hummed to himself as he tackled the washing-up, then considered the contents of the refrigerator.

“Sherlock, I think your livers are beginning to go off.”

No response from the sofa.  John figured he’d give Sherlock one more day with the livers, then return them to Molly himself.  In the meantime, his own breakfast had not been skimpy.  Between him and Sherlock, they were now out of several items that needed to be restocked.  He could drop Sherlock’s coat and scarf at the dry-cleaners on the way.

Hell, he needed to hear from the Cromwell soon about that job.  He was rapidly turning into exactly what Mrs Hudson claimed not to be: Sherlock’s housekeeper.

***

When John returned from his errands, Sherlock was still on the sofa but now sound asleep, curled up snuffling into the sofa cushions with his back to the room.  John couldn’t help noticing the way his dressing gown pulled taut over his nicely rounded rump.

Sex was going to be a problem sooner or later.  John had the comfort of his own left hand, of course, but he knew from experience that this wouldn’t be enough for the long term.  He’d seen posts on BritChat, and some of them had seemed... possible.  And there must still be places in London where people gathered to see whom they might meet.  It couldn’t be all _that_ different from his uni days. 

And there was the rub.  _John_ was different from his uni days and different again from the man who’d hit Canada after five years of sand and dust and heat and blood in Afghanistan.  Hell, it was a wonder the Canadian government hadn’t locked them all up, him and his mates, kept them in custody until they calmed down a bit.

He wasn’t that man anymore.  The idea of picking up a partner for the night no longer appealed.  The idea of Sherlock appealed... all too well, given that Sherlock had said clearly he wasn’t interested.

John would work something out.  One thing was certain: as long as Sherlock wanted him at Baker Street, he wasn’t leaving.


End file.
